


Beyond These Games

by recreational



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Romance, Slash, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-08 09:17:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 37,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recreational/pseuds/recreational
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Getting to know the man behind the voice could be a definite advantage, Greg thought. Yet that it could also mean his death was just the beginning of the complications.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for the nagging, CrackshotKate, I think I would’ve never written a Mystrade story without you :) Oh, and for the beta’ing as well, of course …

He was too drunk for this. Or maybe not. The hand on his crotch told him that a bit of stimulation might do the trick, so he waited to find out what the hand was able to achieve. In the meantime, he could try to unclasp that infernal bra. The fact that he’d been trying to do so for some time without any success brought him back to his initial thought – alcohol definitely ruined his fine motor skills.

 _Fuck fine motor skills_. He needed sex and he needed it now, and it didn't matter if Susan, or Samantha, damn, what was her name? Iris, yes, if Iris had also had a few too many and that her flat smelled of an unsettling combination of washing powder and his grandma’s perfume.

It was important that she knew what to do with her hands and that she patiently ignored his fumbling. In fact, Greg suspected that she didn't realise most of what he was doing. Maybe the whole thing wasn’t such a good idea after all.

 _Fuck not such a good idea_. Impatiently, he let go of the bra and hoped that Iris would manage to open his fly already. She did, thank goodness, and his cock growing in her hands should be evidence enough that sex indeed was possible. After all those years, anything was better than the nothing of his marriage.

Stepping out of his trousers and stumbling backwards to the bed, he was  relieved to feel the bed’s edge against his legs as his balance was heavily overtaxed by keeping himself and his company upright. He had just manoeuvred Iris on the mattress with  no small effort when his phone beeped.

A text message. He could ignore that.

Another one.

Greg gritted his teeth. It was him. Just one person in the world sent him text messages in rapid succession at the most inconvenient times. No, of course there were two people, but as they were genetically similar to a large degree, they didn't really count as  separate beings.

Lately it was mainly Mycroft Holmes, though. The elder Holmes and his irrational fears about his brother, justified as they may often be, were slowly but surely driving Greg up the wall. 

A third text.

“Shit,” he cursed and Iris blinked, clearly confused.

“What's up? Expecting some important police business?” she slurred and lay back on the bed.

“No, … yes, maybe.” Scowling, Greg stepped out of bed and clumsily searched for his phone in his jacket.

 _Please return to Yard. MH_ it said and judging by the difficulty he had in deciphering the text, it was the worst case scenario for his condition. He scrolled up, maybe the next messages would save him.

_S enquiring after suspect K. Please divert attention. MH_

Diverting Sherlock's attention in the state he was in now? Again, not the best idea.

 _I rely on a direct reaction on your behalf. MH_  Which would be Mycroft Holmes for ‘pronto’.

Frowning, he looked down on the pitiful state of his half-hard cock and adjusted it a bit in his briefs. At least he wouldn’t cause a stir if he left the house now, he thought and pulled up his trousers.

“I'm sorry but...” he started and looked up. Iris, no, that wasn't her name either but it didn't matter anyway any more, was lying on the bed motionless, regular breathing indicating that she had fallen asleep. _Great, no awkward goodbye,_ it crossed Greg's mind, but briefly he was tempted to wake her up and explain to her that for a single woman such behaviour was exceedingly risky.

Shaking his head to get rid of the police officer's voice, he nevertheless grabbed a pen and paraphrased what he had just thought. Maybe this time he should thank that bastard Mycroft Holmes for ruining his sex life; picking up someone at such a dodgy bar, half drunk, wasn't such a good idea after all. He should go to the bar down the street instead.

After leaving the flat, he took each step of the staircase with great care and never lost hold of the rail. Damn, next time he swore he'd drink less, but whatever embarrassment Mycroft Holmes had spared him, he wouldn't thank him for anything. When it came to favours, that faceless, voiceless stalker who messed with his life at the press of a button, already owed him big time.

Greg grunted. Unfortunately there was nothing he could do about it. The first time he had received one of those messages, he had deleted it without even wondering from whom it came. When he arrived at the Yard the next day, he had four people less in his department and a guy from internal investigation knocking at his door.

 _“_ _I expect your cooperation”_ he had read on his phone at the moment the guy stepped into his office. Shaking his hand, he had asked him why he had come.

“You know that I don't have to explain the matter, but I expect your cooperation” was all Greg needed to hear to sign away his professional integrity and become a babysitter for a grown-up. A genius grown-up, but still.

He didn’t know exactly if living with the occasional text message from Mycroft Holmes came with its benefits, maybe the fact that his department was the only one exempt from restructuring had something to do with him, but Greg didn’t know, nor did he want to.

Recently though, Sherlock’s erratic behaviour had reached a new high, and the frequency of those messages had increased dramatically. As had the phone calls from Sherlock himself. He was constantly getting on Greg’s nerves, annoying him with suspicions about a group of counterfeiters who forged euros. Shit, who cared?

Sherlock claimed they were behind two murders, too, but he had neither proof for the counterfeiting nor for the murders. All of which amounted to some undercover activities from Sherlock and John that Greg didn’t want to know about, but Mycroft Holmes seemed to be somewhat alarmed that they crossed paths with a few of London’s more dubious or more illustrious figures, Greg speculated.

Stepping out of the house, he inhaled the warm spring air. At least he didn’t have to run around in the pouring rain  cleaning up after Sherlock, and that fat arse of a big brother was most likely sitting in a leather armchair, sipping a glass of wine and sending errant messages when he felt like it.

“He doesn’t even have the balls to phone me,” he muttered and clenched his fists in his pockets. He had not yet reached the kerb when his phone rang.

 _No caller ID_ , Greg read and stopped. He didn't get phone calls from unknown numbers – except for one. But Mycroft Holmes didn't speak, he texted.

“Hello?” Greg answered cautiously.

 _“_ _Detective Inspector. You requested I make contact immediately?”_ a voice said and Greg had to shake the impression that it sounded like a threat. A purred threat, if something like that existed.

“Mycroft Holmes?” Not the cleverest answer, he conceded, but when something as monumental as that happened, there had to be room for a healthy dose of astonishment.

_“_ _Indeed. Now, how can I be of service? Do you need clarification regarding our common problem?”_

You had to give it to him, the bastard knew how to wrap shit in euphemisms, Greg thought. He wasn’t sure if it wouldn’t have been wiser to go on communicating along their usual one-way street. How the hell do you talk to people like Mycroft Holmes?

“Well, I…“ There was really no need to ask him anything about the messages, Greg conceded. So what now? Small talk?

_“_ _Detective Inspector, I suggest you hail the cab coming your way and if you feel the stringent necessity to contact me again… I’ll contact you.”_

The line was dead and Greg took a few seconds to glower down at his phone. Not without raising his hand though, because from what he knew, or better, from what he assumed of Mycroft Holmes, the cab would doubtlessly pull over in seconds – which it did.

His phone still in hand, he got into the taxi and told the cabbie to take him to the Yard.

 _Stringent necessity my arse_ , Greg cursed, he felt a stringent necessity to yell at his phone, but you never knew which surveillance camera that bastard had tapped into. Although he had been a staunch advocate of CCTV until now, that last episode freaked him out a little.

 _Easy_ , he calmed himself down, relax while you have the chance. You're running from one sibling straight to another. Trying to focus on the houses they drove past, Greg fought immediate nausea and sank back into his seat. The state of his intoxication combined with his annoyance weren’t the most promising conditions but he had to find his inner equilibrium somehow.

From afar he could already see that such a task wouldn't be easy. Sherlock was having a discussion with the guard at the front entrance of the Yard and from the weary face of the man, Sherlock must have been pestering him for some time now.

Greg looked at his watch. About an hour, he guessed. Poor guy.

The moment Sherlock saw him getting out of the cab, he sprinted over to him and with some effort, Greg managed to pay the driver instead of closing the door and yelling at him to escape without regard for the traffic.

“Lestrade, could you tell that man that it’s of the utmost importance that I get inside and access your database?”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Sherlock, it’s half past eleven on a Friday night.

“I need more information about Kersey.” Sherlock squinted his eyes and stepped nearer to sniff at him. “Are you drunk, Inspector?”

“As I said, it’s half past eleven on a Friday night, not that it's any of your business. Now I’m going to ask you one question: Do you have any evidence connecting Kersey with the murders?”

“No, not yet, but I – ”

“Okay, then we’re done here.” Greg said tiredly. He definitely needed to sleep. Forever, preferably.

“Of course, what was I thinking?” Sherlock scoffed. “Catching murderers hasn’t been your forte lately anyway. Why should that suddenly be the case?”

Greg closed his eyes. Bloody Holmeses. They always found leverage, however low they had to stoop for it. Exhaling loudly, Greg squared his shoulders and met Sherlock’s gaze.

“Now listen. There’s nothing I can do about Kersey, okay? But you remember that button you brought me, the one I should have examined by forensics?”

“What about it?”

“If you trot off to Baker Street immediately, I’ll get it out of my office drawer and really have it examined by forensics, deal?” Greg couldn’t suppress a grin, but he was sure that if they weren’t standing in front of the Yard, Sherlock would have killed him on the spot. Briefly revelling in the glee he felt, Greg braced himself for the inevitable retort.

“It's not as if I expected anything else of someone like you,” Sherlock sneered and then brushed past him to cross the street.

 _Breathe Greg_ , he told himself, he's gone too far now and fortunately you don't have your gun with you, so you can't take him down from here. One clean shot, God, what he wouldn't give! Shrilly, his phone woke him from his fantasies and a glance at the display confirmed Greg's worst suspicion.

“What?” he barked. This Holmes had better not give him any shit.

 _“Don't be alarmed Inspector, I'm not contacting you for another… errand. I know it's well after your finishing time and you've earned your sleep more than anyone else.”_ That liquid-smooth voice cajoled and Greg felt his anger dissipating.

“Then why are you calling me?” Maybe the worst was yet to come.

_“I simply wanted to congratulate you on your good work Inspector, that's all.”_

“Where did that come from?” Greg asked warily. The Holmes family didn't praise people. It just wasn't in their genes and the short pause that followed showed Greg that the elder Holmes might really be sailing uncharted waters.

_“_ _It is possible that I didn't phrase it accurately the last time we spoke, so I wanted to emphasise how much I value your cooperation. Our cooperation, to be precise.”_

“Does that mean you're apologising for hanging up on me?” Damn alcohol, he really couldn’t tell.

_“_ _Exactly. I’d be obliged if you didn’t relate this to my brother, though. He doesn’t take them lightly, concessions on my part, I mean.”_

Greg laughed. “I guess he doesn’t. Must’ve been a real joy, you two growing up – and in the same house above all.”

_“_ _It was a challenge – for all parties involved. Fortunately it was a rather large house. A cab is approaching so I won’t keep you any longer, but if you'd like my advice…”_

“I’d be elated.” Greg mocked.

_“_ _Don’t have that button examined by forensics.”_


	2. Chapter 2

Was it Monday already? Groggily, Greg unlocked his mobile.

_“_ _Good morning, Inspector.”_

He must be dreaming. Or had that voice in his ear never stopped speaking?

“Morning,” Greg rasped.

_“_ _I’m afraid that I need you to do another little favour for me. A surveillance job, nothing overly strenuous.”_

“Why can’t you have one of your underlings do it then?” Greg groaned and recoiled from the light.

_“_ _Immediate police action might be required and the whole issue is of a rather delicate nature.”_

“It’s Saturday, damn it.”

 _“_ _I’ll see to it that your attendance is requested in an urgent meeting on Monday,”_ the voice said in a conspiratorial tone and Greg tried to wrap his mind around the meaning of his words.

“And what consolation is…? Oh, that kind of meeting!” He had always suspected his superiors of scheduling them for the sole purpose of giving the morning papers greater attention.

He sat up and sighed. “Where should I go?”

_“_ _I’ll send you the exact GPS location and a car will be made available for you in a quarter of an hour. Drive to the coordinates and park in front of house number 12. You need a direct view of house number 15. Thank you – ”_

“For my cooperation, I get it,” Greg scoffed and hung up. Fifteen minutes – so it was either showering or breakfast. Reluctantly, he opted for showering, hoping that he could get hold of something to eat on his mission. Yet half an hour later, sitting in an uncomfortable compact in a very quiet road in Richmond, he regretted the decision, and his vibrating mobile told him that hunger wasn’t going to be his only problem.

“Now what?” he snapped before the elder Holmes could say anything. “I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be but nothing’s going on.”

 _“_ _Inspector.”_ Had it sounded like a term of endearment? No, impossible. _“As long as there is nothing going on, everything is in order.”_   

“Aha, then why am I here?

_“_ _It’s just in case someone arrives at that address, you might have to get active.”_

“And how long am I supposed to wait for such a case?"

_“_ _Not excessively, the target will soon leave the house and once he’s gone, there’s no danger any more.”_

“Great, whenever that might be. You could’ve told me that I was going to the end of the world. I didn’t even have coffee.”

_“_ _That’s a minor problem, rest assured.”_

Greg’s anger flared up. “For you it isn’t. I’m mooching about in the most coffee-deprived borough of London. You’d sooner find a cow to milk around here than a café. And I’m not even getting started on food.”

 _“_ _I’d like to continue debating with you, but you will understand that there are more important things at hand,”_ Mycroft Holmes stated and promptly hung up.

Greg looked at his phone, flabbergasted. What nerve! Already searching for the right expletives to express his anger, he was interrupted by a tentative knock. Surprised, he gave a start, but it was just a young guy, showing him a paper bag. Cautiously, Greg opened the window.

“Delivery for the silver compact in front of number 12?”

“That would be me, I guess,” Greg scowled but before he could reach for his wallet, the guy had already disappeared again. Greg opened the bag: coffee and a ham and cheese sandwich. Of course Mycroft Holmes knew what he preferred and Greg didn't want to envision what that might entail besides food.

Opting for ignorance, he chewed his sandwich and looked at the house. What the hell was he to do when whoever was supposed to appear, did in fact arrive? As if it had read his thoughts, his phone vibrated.

 _“Did you find_ _everything to your satisfaction?”_ Was it possible to hear a grin through the phone line? 'Til then, Greg would have bet that it wasn't.

“Yes, naturally. And as you're so all-knowing, could you tell me what I'm going to do when someone gets too near to the house? Sometimes your secrecy is a bit exaggerated. I mean, am I supposed to arrest them, shoot them, or what?”

_“_ _You will know who the target is the moment he appears on the scene, but do me a favour and don't shoot him. It would cause us both more inconvenience than we’re prepared to deal with.”_

“What about you giving me your phone number, huh?” Greg asked without thinking. “So that there won’t be any deadly misunderstandings anymore.” The awkward silence that followed reminded him of the terrible moment during a date when you've suggested going back to your place when all she wanted was share a cab. He shouldn't be surprised if he had overstepped a boundary, this was Mycroft Holmes, he probably kept his size secret from his tailor.

A message came in with a number and Greg smirked. Things were slowly becoming interesting.

 _“_ _Is there anything else?”_ the voice asked without much enthusiasm.

“No, but since you're the one who had me stranded here, I think it's only fair that you provide some entertainment."

 _“_ _You want us to have a conversation?”_ Greg would have given his month’s salary to see the face that accompanied the question. He had no comparison, though, because no matter how much he wracked his brain, he couldn’t remember ever seeing astonishment on Sherlock’s face.

“Yeah, something like that, I mean there are a lot of interesting things you could tell, I guess. Well, as long as you don't have to kill me afterwards.”

_“_ _Apologies Inspector, but I might not be the best address regarding a… chat… on the phone. Usually my phone calls are more purposeful.”_

Like: _Do this, do that, I expect your cooperation,_ Greg thought. “Well, then tell me what you're doing right now. It's surely more interesting than what I'm doing.”

_“_ _Not really, I'm afraid. At the moment I’m entertaining a high ranking south-east Asian diplomat. Or rather the talented Amber is doing it, so my contribution isn’t required. I’m convinced that my guest and I will have a very constructive… discussion afterwards.”_

The last words had that distinctive growl again, but Greg couldn't really place it. Like everything that voice said, it carried more seduction than danger, although sometimes the subtle threat became an outright challenge of war and Greg was relieved that he wouldn't be the one subjected to that ominous _discussion_.

 _Wait a second._ Greg frowned. He hadn't really thought about Mycroft Holmes and used the word _seduction_ , had he? Shit, that failure last night had really thrown him off track and if he ever managed to get away from this godforsaken place, he should make some plans for the evening.

“Wow, I chose the wrong line of work,” Greg laughed. “Why do I chase murderers when I could serve my country by paying a hooker?”

_“_ _Let me assure you, Inspector, those schemes are a lot less enjoyable to bring about than you think.”_

Was it possible for Mycroft Holmes to sound dejected? Greg wasn't sure about it, maybe if he had seen the facial expression, he could have interpreted the voice better. How Sherlock's brother looked? He couldn't even begin to imagine it. 

“Yeah, you're right, thinking about it, I don’t envy you.” Pity for Mycroft Holmes – that wouldn’t go over well. Nervously, Greg waited for a degrading remark but after a pause, his caller just inhaled. 

 _“_ _Well, Inspector.”_ The voice was strangely gentle _. “I’m sure the owner of the house won’t keep you there for an inordinate amount of time, if you have further questions, don’t hesitate to contact me.”_

“I’ll do that,” Greg said and to his surprise, the man at the other end of the line really listened to his final words instead of just hanging up.

Greg leaned his head against the headrest and looked at the house. From the outside, it was the most ordinary of all houses, brick façade, small front garden, nothing special. What the heck was going on in the elder Holmes’ mind? Who of interest would live in such an inconspicuous building?

Before Greg could form any thoughts about it, the door opened and a middle aged man accompanied by two cronies stepped outside. They were the complete opposite of the house and quite unsurprisingly, they aimed for the black limousine in front of it. Watching them drive away, Greg grabbed his cup of coffee that was still half full. Now that his duty was over, he could at least enjoy a break.

In the corner of his eye, he saw something moving on the other side of the street and when he looked up, he knew he had spotted his targets – Sherlock and John had stopped in the entrance of a house a bit down the street.

He should have anticipated that. Why hadn’t he anticipated that? It didn’t matter, though, because he was out of the game and just a spectator. He could watch. The two discussed something, then Sherlock strode to number 15 and rang the doorbell. John, on the other hand, still stood in the other doorway, fidgeting, and from his scowl Greg inferred that Sherlock was acting on one of his rather crazy plans again.

Won’t have any luck this time. Greg sighed with relief. Hell, that was how the elder Holmes felt each time he saw his sibling escape from danger by a hair. Fortunately Sherlock didn’t attempt to break into the house or something similarly stupid and after a while he gave up and walked back the direction he'd come from, collecting John on his way.   

Greg looked at his phone. Should he inform Big Brother? In the end, it was only he himself who didn’t know anything about what was going on. Maybe he should call Mycroft Holmes and demand some explanations, now that he had the number.

He decided against it for the moment, although it sounded quite promising to turn the stalking around for once. Parking the car in front of his house and leaving the key under the foot mat where he had found it, he dragged himself up the staircase to start the Holmesless part of his weekend.

Aimlessly, he lazed around, read the newspaper and watched television, until boredom hit him with full force. It was only 1pm and he could either heat up a microwave meal or give in to the constant nagging at the back of his mind that kept repeating the morning's episode.

_“_ _Inspector?”_

“Afternoon… Mr Holmes.” That sounded extremely odd, after all that time with Sherlock.

 _“_ _How can I be of help?”_ the voice asked in a friendly tone, the sharp edge missing completely. It sounded almost soothing. Greg relaxed against the backrest of the sofa.

“Well, this morning, I mean, I should’ve known that I was babysitting your little brother again, but do you think it’s a good idea to keep me in the dark about everything that’s going on?”

_“_ _The less each one of you knows, the better. I hope you understand that. Things are already acutely complicated.”_

“With Sherlock as my little brother, I’d maybe act the same way. Isn’t it a lot of work, keeping track of him?”

 _“_ _Yes, it is,”_ Mycroft Holmes sighed. _“I consider it… my hobby.”_

Greg laughed. “You wouldn’t have much time for leisure anyway, I suppose.”

_“_ _Indeed, Inspector, but you know all about jobs that take up most of your personal life, don’t you?”_

Greg stared at the coffee table in front of him. Or rather at the empty space where his coffee table once was before his ex-wife had taken it with her.

“At least you can do something for your family,” he said, listening to the breathing at the other end of the line.

 _“_ _I hope so,”_ was all Mycroft Holmes managed to say. Greg clenched his teeth. He knew that feeling of helplessness in the face of chaos too well, and if responsibility even overwhelmed someone like the elder Holmes sometimes, it was highly alarming.

_“_ _Don’t you think you should sleep, Inspector? You missed out on a couple of hours last night.”_

Greg gave a laugh. “Honestly, you’re starting to mother me?”

 _“_ _I’m just concerned about your operational capability.”_ Of course it only was about The Work, Greg thought, he was dealing with a Holmes after all.

Mycroft cleared his throat. _“I might not have expressed that accurately, I’m sorry. I should have said that I’m concerned about your health.”_

“That sounds better.” It really did. An odd feeling, though, comfortable of sorts.

 _“_ _I leave you to your hard-earned rest now, Inspector.”_ No dial tone followed. He was waiting.

“You're right, I should take a nap, I...” It felt wrong somehow to let that calming voice go, but Greg couldn't think of a way to elongate their conversation. “Well, bye then.”

A little pause and then he heard the tone at last. It reminded him of adolescence – waiting for the other one to hang up – but when the line was disconnected, he felt the same emptiness that had clogged each happy thought in his flat even before his ex-wife had left.

 _Damn, I'm so pathetic._ Greg exhaled loudly and then lay down. He needed to sleep, eat, dress accordingly and then take a cab to that bar he should have already gone to the day before – never mind the crick in his neck after three hours on an uncomfortable sofa.

Yet a couple of hours later, when he was standing in front of the wooden door of the bar, other guests squeezing past him, he briefly entertained the idea of going home again. There was nothing wrong with the place, it looked more like a pub, no garish decorations, mixed clientele, but the thought of going through the motions of meeting someone and exchanging meaningless details didn't seem extremely appealing. Especially without large quantities of alcohol.

Banishing those doubts, he entered and immediately scanned the surroundings. Usually he’d let the grey fox image work for him but today he had to be a bit more active to avoid a failure like the day before. In fact, he should avoid all the mistakes he had made that last time and approach the problem from the direction that had always proven most promising.

Going by the ‘come hither’ look the guy in the suit gave him, he had made the right decision, but the moment he came over and started talking, Greg's interest waned. An accountant. Sophisticated looking but boring. Greg could barely control himself and at times he was even tempted to do something Sherlock-like in face of all the inane chattering – if it hadn't been for that mouth.

The guy was rather nondescript, dark hair, round face, but his mouth looked promising and Greg knew exactly what it could do apart from boring him to death.

And as if he – Tom was his name if Greg remembered correctly – had read his thoughts, he suggested that they should leave and find someplace more private. Outside the bar, he waited for Greg and then led the way into the alley behind the pub.

“Wow, that's dark,” Greg said and tried to adjust his eyes to the weak light. There were no lights anywhere and Tom manoeuvred him into an entrance where even the street lights of the main road didn’t reach. But light was unnecessary anyway because what counted were Tom's hands on his crotch. Or the fact that the eager accountant didn’t care for his good suit and sank to his knees the moment he had opened Greg’s trousers and pulled down the briefs.

 _Finally_ , Greg thought and then his mind blanked everything else out when his cock was swallowed whole. Sagging against the door at his back, he let the glorious feeling of that tongue sweep him away, let the suction of those lips connect all the tingling in his groin at the tip of his cock…

A phone rang. More precise: his phone rang. Additionally vibrating against his chest, it violently ripped Greg from his mind’s journey. Reaching into the inner pocket of his jacket, he vowed just to turn it off.

No caller ID. Shit. With unsteady hands, he unlocked it and tried to control his breathing at the same time. Hopefully there was no need to talk.

 _“Detective Inspector._ _I have to inform you that you’re on CCTV._ ”

“Shit!” Greg shouted and scanned the alley. “Where?” What on earth could a camera see around here?

_“_ _Don’t try to find it, it’s got night vision. Yet the resolution is quite impressive, I can assure you.”_

“What's going on?” Tom asked and stood up.

“There's a camera.”

“What?” Almost hysterical, Greg’s acquaintance started cursing under his breath and then fled in the direction of the main road without looking back. Pulling up his trousers with one hand, Greg clenched his teeth and aimed his eyes at the tarmac. That guy had problems? Bullshit. _He_ had problems. Even so, in retrospect it couldn’t get any more humiliating.

_“You might want to close your fly, Inspector.”_

It obviously could.


	3. Chapter 3

Watching the blur of London’s streets pass by, Greg still couldn’t believe what had happened. Maybe if he acted as if nothing had happened, it might possibly go away?

Quickly paying the cabbie – he couldn’t even look _him_ in the eye – he was relieved that none of his neighbours crossed his path on the staircase. In his flat, the first thing he headed for was the fridge. At least it was safe to start with the drinking now.

He let his phone clatter on the kitchen table and glared at it between taking swigs. If it rang, that would be just what he needed. And right on cue, it did.

“You’re taking the piss, aren’t you?” Greg asked, exasperated, but the ringtone went on blaring loudly, accompanied by the droning vibration on the table.

“Stop it already!” Greg barked but he knew that it wouldn’t. Holmeses just couldn’t let go. Another of those genetic flaws, he suspected, and so he clenched his teeth and accepted the call. No one could force him to speak, though.

 _“_ _Inspector…”_ Greg was sure that Mycroft Holmes wasn’t pondering what to say, he just wanted to draw out the title a bit more. How the hell did he manage to slightly roll the 'R' without sounding like a prat?

_“_ _If I have inconvenienced you, I’m very sorry. It was definitely not my aim. I merely wanted to avert possible damage.”_

Greg rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure, if you –”

_“_ _I would’ve called you earlier but the situation was not brought to my attention faster. And when I was informed, I was reluctant to… spoil your enjoyment.”_

Greg tried to translate what he had been told. First, there were other people doing the supervising for the elder Holmes – he should have anticipated that – so his activities in the alley were initially spotted by some lowly helper who stared at monitors the whole day long. Secondly, Mycroft Holmes had hesitated to call him because he didn’t want to be a spoilsport, seeing that the action had already started. Greg shuddered. He couldn’t say which was worse.

“Honestly, Mr Holmes, I think I would’ve been able to go without the information you’ve just given me,” he said and the following silence told him that his caller gave his next utterance some more consideration.

 _“_ _I needn’t draw you attention to the fact that you should maybe treat your… exploits with a bit more discretion,”_ he ground out eventually, and Greg snorted. How could you tell Mycroft Holmes that sometimes discretion was overrun by hormones? But he was right, Greg had to concede. What if a colleague on the beat had arrested him?

_“_ _In exalted positions it’s advisable to avoid being exposed. Making yourself vulnerable isn’t a good idea, Inspector.”_

Was he talking about himself? Greg suspected that pictures of someone sucking Mycroft Holmes’ cock would most likely cause a major government crisis. Now it really was an advantage that he didn’t know how Sherlock’s brother looked – he wouldn’t get that image out of his mind ever again.

“Hate to say it, but you’re right, you know. Guess that comes with the genes, too,” Greg said and took another swig.

 _“_ _But I don’t want to intrude myself into your affairs, so please think nothing of it and have a good evening, Inspector,”_ the voice dismissed him with a final purr.

“Yes, night,” Greg said curtly and hung up. Not intrude himself into his affairs? Don’t make me laugh! Well, he could at least try to reduce the risk of bringing shame to the police force again and staying at home seemed to be a logical first step.

Finishing the bottle, Greg deliberated what to do. If he couldn’t return to the bar, then the bar would have to come to him, and apart from the beer there was just one thing missing. Purposefully he aimed for an unlabelled DVD cover in his bookshelf and took it out. Opening it, he was briefly tempted to forgo his plan: already the title was unspeakable. Yet the other titles on the online shop had sounded even worse and the film as such was okay.

He put the DVD into the player and switched on the television. What a fitting ending to a lousy evening, he thought and pressed ‘play’.

You really had to give it to gay porn, they were losing even less time on the preliminaries. The young bloke drifting through life was getting a blowjob in a cubicle of some club’s toilet and Greg quickly unbuttoned his trousers. Those visuals provided enough stimulation to remind him of his arousal earlier that evening and leisurely, he started pumping his cock. Closing his eyes, he listened to the sounds and remembered the talented mouth around his hardness. That guy had known how to use his tongue.

Greg could practically feel the firm lips again, working on his length. So little stimulation had been necessary and he had already been so close. If the guy had sucked a little harder, the characteristic warmth would have spread even more rapidly in his groin, pulling him closer to the edge – just like now.

A siren on television woke him from his fantasy and he opened his eyes. The young guy had got stopped for speeding at night and an American highway patrol officer made him step out of the car.

“Hands on the hood. If it turns out that you’re drunk, you’re busted, my friend,” the policeman said, but the young guy threw him a sly glance.

“Is that really necessary?“ he asked, writhing on the hood suggestively. “I’m ready to undergo punishment immediately, officer. Oh sorry, I meant of course… inspector,” he purred, flattering the cop’s vanity.

Greg stared – the rubbing of his cock becoming rather automatic – because in a surprise attack, that last word had effectively transported him to a completely different realm of fantasy. Desperately, he tried to concentrate on the cop who was now fucking the younger bloke – but for nothing.

It had sounded so… familiar. And suddenly his mind was filled with the silky purr of Mycroft Holmes voice, growling _Inspector_ and letting the word linger to achieve the best effect.

Closing his eyes, Greg heard the slapping of the bodies colliding in frenzied thrusts, and he focused on the movements of his own hand. He could clear his mind of those other disturbing factors, he could…

“Fuck, yes, harder Inspector,” the voice cut through the background noises and Greg clenched his teeth. No, shit, he wouldn’t, no…! But the gentle tugging in his crotch had become a relentless pull in a fraction of a second and it ripped every ounce of control from him. Overwhelmed, he stopped resisting and was immediately carried away by a force that felt like a hurricane.

“Damn!” he swore, trying to remember how to breathe while drawing his orgasm out as long as possible at the same time.

Catching his breath, he relaxed into the sofa. That had been… intense. Good to know that something like that was still possible. With his clean hand, he switched off the television and after shedding his trousers, he stumbled towards the shower. Sleeping shouldn’t be a problem now, with the afterglow still tiring him pleasantly.

Only the next day, when he opened his eyes in the dim morning light, the lingering aftereffects were immediately crushed by a wagonload of shame and embarrassment. Returning him to the moment that eclipsed the other awkward situations by a mile, his mind drastically presented him the plain facts: Mycroft Holmes had seen him, cock in someone else’s mouth, and had afterwards lectured him on his sex life.

Disgrace, impertinence, those terms sprang to his mind, but in the end, just one word remained: humiliation. It followed Greg everywhere that day, turned the perfectly fine milk sour, made his coffee bitter and in The Sunday Telegraph, all he saw were the scandals exposing politicians, weakening governments and ruining companies. Which of those seemingly random occurrences might have been a product of Mycroft Holmes’ meddling?

At the end of the day, Greg had worked himself into such a huff that he had nearly directly deleted the message he got from the Yard. He was supposed to meet someone from career advice on Monday morning. Was that supposed to be a joke? Mycroft Holmes provided him with free time on the grounds of 'career advice'?

“Fuck you!” Greg yelled at the mobile and as if it objected, it started ringing.

Foaming with rage, he accepted the call from the now well-known number. “Mycroft Holmes and his almighty phone,” he shouted. “Try the real world for a change, that’s where people like me do the dirty work!”

Switching his mobile off, he slumped into a chair. It was about time he took his mind off the Holmes breed but that wouldn’t work at home. Discretion? What did that idiot have to do with his life? Nothing. So if he wanted to go out, he'd go out.

Yet already on his way to the pub down the street, Greg realised that he had ventured in the same direction for far too many times during the preceding years. He took a deep breath. After a couple of beers, he’d return home again and for the biggest part of the evening, he wouldn’t have been alone for a change – that had to count for something.

All the tables were taken and he settled for one of the bar stools. When the lager he had ordered was placed in front of him, he briefly contemplated the sorry sight he must be. Maybe what had happened to him the night before was just consequential.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

The silky voice left a barely discernible trail on his neck and ear, only to settle down on his shoulder like the warm squeeze of a hand. Greg wrinkled his brows in annoyance. The devious bastard.

“Is this seat taken?” _that_ _voice_ asked and someone sat down on the stool next to him.

“You know that it's not,” Greg said but didn’t turn his head. Staring into his beer, he intently watched the bubbles of the foam burst and tried to ignore the unobtrusive aftershave that wavered into his direction. That the Holmeses had an affinity for expensive scents only spoke for a virulent streak of vanity in the family. The perfectly manicured fingernails on the polished surface of the bar told the same story.

The hand signalled something to the barkeeper and then lifted the glass of beer that he brought. Sneaking another peek when the glass was put down again, Greg could discern the colour of the suit. Dark blue. The cuffs of the shirt were just the slightest bit visible, also when the arm moved, so the suit was tailored. Of course, what else?

Directing his eyes back to the glass in front of him, Greg bore the uneasy silence as well as he could and finished his beer.

“May I offer you another drink?”

It wasn’t the question itself that made Greg look up. It was the completely unaffected inflection of the voice that broke through all his barriers – as if they were old school pals. It drew up his head magnetically, irretrievably connecting a man to what had only been the sound of a voice until then.

Greg hadn’t expected the elder brother to be Sherlock's spitting image, and he definitely wasn’t, but he had Holmes written all over his face regardless.

Yet despite the familiar expression, Greg could easily identify the reason why Mycroft Holmes was perfect for his job: he was inconspicuous. Similar to the way he offered to buy him a beer some seconds ago, he could adapt to his environment perfectly, not appearing in the least out of place in the bar, even in his suit.

Where Sherlock stood out, he blended in, observed, and waited for his chance. And just like Sherlock, it only took him one look to find out exactly what his opposite was thinking and he couldn’t hide that knowledge for the world.

Yes, that was definitely the more dangerous of the Holmes brothers, Greg concluded.

“I try to owe a Holmes as little as possible,” he said and waved for the barkeeper to draw them a second. Mycroft Holmes raised an amused eyebrow.

“But there’s no use in trying to drink you under the table anyway, I guess,” Greg remarked dryly and the corners of his company’s mouth twitched.

“What makes you think so?”

“Suppose you’re a regular guest at the Russian embassy, so you must be able to hold your liquor.”

With some interest, Greg watched the hint of a smile becoming a proper one. On Mycroft Holmes’ face it didn’t even look as fake as on his brother’s, although it couldn’t completely hide its devious nature – especially in the context of what he said then.

“There’s no need for that, a couple of rather effective substances prevent intoxication.”

“Wow, even better,” Greg scoffed.

“That doesn’t mean that I’ve taken any of them,” the elder Holmes said and Greg’s mind automatically scanned the sentence. 

“Doesn’t mean you haven’t.”

Mycroft Holmes answered Greg’s challenging gaze with one of the trademark Holmesian cryptic smiles and Greg felt his anger bubbling up. He had let himself be fooled into a conversation again. How had that happened?

“You know what, Mr Holmes – ?”

“Mycroft, please.”

“What?”

“Call me Mycroft.”

Maybe that bastard was really feeling the effect of the alcohol. Greg squinted his eyes but he couldn’t detect any signs. There was just a raised eyebrow again, indicating some interest in Greg’s next move.

“So where’s that supposed to end?” he asked incredulously. “You and me as some kind of buddies or what?”

The elder Holmes shrugged. “We’ve known each other for some time now. It seems like a natural course.”

What the…? Greg buried his nose in his hands and tried to focus. He shouldn’t overreact now, the man was a serious threat if he wanted to, but it was also impossible to just go along with everything he said. Not in a case like that.

“Yeah, sure let’s establish a closer connection on our level of trust – oh wait, I forgot, there is no level of trust.” Giving a frustrated laugh, Greg nevertheless held the piercing gaze that was now directed at him.

“We’re both cautious men, Detective Inspector. We don’t give up our advantages lightly,” Mycroft Holmes said through clenched teeth, quickly reining in his aggravation. “You’re withholding as much from my brother as I do – to mention just one example.”

Greg winced but Mycroft Holmes appeared to be equally shamefaced – at least for a fraction of a second.

“I’ve never thought about that, really,” Greg conceded. “If you look at it, we might be equally distrustful asses. But I’m not half as manipulative as you are.”

“You aren’t? May I remind you of the murder of that banker when you –“

“Shit, no, I get it, okay. So we’re both conniving bastards who do everything to save their careers. If that isn’t the basis of a beautiful friendship, I don’t know what is,” Greg sneered but then slouched his shoulders. “A sad life, really,” he sighed and received a frown instead of a reply. “I mean, wouldn’t it be a relief to trust somebody for a change?”

“You have to specify that, Inspector,” Sherlock’s brother asked cautiously.

“Do you think that people like us are actually capable of trusting anyone?” That should be clear enough but thinking about it, Greg really didn’t know. Even Mycroft Holmes had to consider that question for some time, yet the moment he snapped out of his ruminations, he immediately extended his hand and Greg looked at it incredulously.

“Call me Mycroft.” Was that a genuine smile?

“Greg.” Squeezing the hand briefly, he couldn’t shake the impression that despite the beer and the bar, something momentous had taken place, but he had to sound things out before he could be certain.

“Tell me about Kersey,” he challenged Mycroft and to his astonishment, the smile didn’t wane.

“The man in Richmond was Kersey,” Mycroft started and Greg gave a laugh.

“I’ve guessed that already, anything new?”

“He’s a middleman, taking care of the business of the bigger bosses. Call him a mercenary if you want to.”

“But there’s nothing about him in the computer. I checked.”

Mycroft inclined his head, shaking it slightly. “He’s much too clever to be caught and that made him interesting for the really dangerous criminals. Currently he’s working for someone who belongs to the illustrious group of people who – how can I phrase it – are untouchable.”

“Like you.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Mycroft said and smirked. “But you have to imagine the whole system as a kind of balance of power. No one messes with them and so they don’t tamper with our business. Once that balance is upset, though, there could be serious repercussions.”

Mycroft’s face darkened and Greg tried to make sense of what he had been told.

“So you better keep your brother away from Kersey, because otherwise he might take up the trail of the other guy, whoever that is,” he suspected and Mycroft’s face lit up a little.

“Exactly.”

“But why not let him make his own mistakes? Maybe he sees the danger.”

“The last time I lost sight of him because I wanted to further my own career… you know what happened,” Mycroft said dejectedly. “I won’t make such a mistake again.”

Greg hadn’t known Sherlock in his worst phase. An acquaintance from the drugs department once had told him a bit about the times they had been on the receiving end of Mycroft’s directives, and dragging Sherlock from one of his hiding places hadn’t been a pretty sight each time it happened.

“I’m sorry, you’re right.” Greg shook his head. “I say that too often lately.”

He observed Mycroft – he still couldn’t get used to that name – finishing his beer (another unbelievable occurrence) and then the searching look was directed at him again.

“Let me take you home.” That sounded more like a Holmes – it was order and not an invitation – but the faint laugh lines around Mycroft’s eyes softened the lapse.

“You mean I get to ride in the flashy motor John always talks about?” Greg jeered.

“If you wish.” 

“But you won’t dump me in an abandoned warehouse, will you?”

Mycroft chuckled. “No, certainly not. Unless you specify it as your destination.”

“Let’s call it a day then,” Greg said and decided to try yet another unthinkable move. Good-naturedly, he slapped Mycroft on the back and stood up, and a brief glance around the pub didn’t uncover any security guys who were about to topple him. Good.

Outside the building, he let himself be ushered into the black limousine that had of course arrived there on cue.

“You know that it would only have been a five-minute walk, don’t you?” Greg settled down in the comfortable backseat.

“Naturally.”

Greg turned his head and found himself subjected to an intent look. Who was he fooling? Greg asked himself. If Sherlock was a puzzle for him, his brother was a mystery, wrapped in golden fleece, shrouded by an invisibility cloak. A complete enigma.

So maybe he should make sure that he hadn’t misunderstood.

“Trust?”

Greg reached out his hand and after a second of hesitation, Mycroft took it.

“Trust,” he said but didn’t let go.

Greg felt the warmth of the hand and saw the promise in the eyes holding his gaze. Similar to the phone, the strange urge to continue the connection was so strong that it overrode all decency and as if Mycroft sensed Greg’s indecision, he cautiously extracted his hand.

“We’ll keep each other informed. Take care… Inspector,” he said with that smooth voice, and slightly embarrassed, Greg hastened to get out of the car. Why did Mycroft still call him that? He couldn’t possibly know, could he?

Shaking his head, he aimed for the door of his block of flats. Damn, to make this work, he really should keep himself in check.


	4. Chapter 4

“How was career advice?” Sally Donovan asked with a shrewd look that stopped Greg dead in his tracks.

“What?”

“Your appointment this morning at career advice,” she repeated, attempting a neutral face, but Greg suspected that she was already eyeing his position.

“Not very promising, I’m afraid,” he said and her face fell.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured and looked at her file again. Sure, you really are, Greg guessed and in a sudden fit of deviousness he added: “Nah, I’m not made for the higher ranks, it’s okay like that.”

 _Of course I’m made for the higher ranks_ , he thought, he was the unofficial pal of the embodiment of the British government. That was a hell of a title to find an acronym for!

Chuckling quietly, he entered his office, but the moment he crossed the threshold, he became aware of the fact that even Mycroft couldn’t perform miracles. The pile of documents on his desk was downright frightening and it would take ages to get rid of it.

He sat down in his chair and procrastinated, contemplating getting a coffee first, when on a whim he opened one of the drawers and took out the plastic bag with the button.

Till now he had kept it there because Mycroft’s orders regarding the Kersey case had been ‘hands off’ from the beginning, everything in that particular direction was to be ignored. Although Greg had followed those orders like he usually did, his police officer’s instinct had forbidden him to throw something like that button away. Despite the text messages, it bugged him to simply disregard evidence, especially when it came from Sherlock, the sniffer dog who was always right.

And now? Things had changed, hadn’t they? He could try to use his new connection to do something good for a change. Greg frowned. Rather _exploit_ that new connection he should say. He was supposed to trust Mycroft, damn it, not pump him for information. On the other hand, he was a policeman and Mycroft knew that. There was no way to keep his position out of their lives.

On the spur of the moment, he reached for his mobile and chose Mycroft’s number.

 _“_ _Greg, how do you do? Do you feel well rested?”_ Greg smirked. It was still incredibly odd to be addressed like that by Mycroft Holmes.

“I would be lying if I said no. Thanks for the time-out, but I think Sally Donovan will be after my job from now on.”

 _“_ _Competition can be very healthy,”_ Mycroft remarked.

Greg laughed. “Sure, but when I look at you and your brother, it can also be a pain in the arse.”

_“_ _A very apt synopsis, Greg. Now, how can I help you?”_

“Don't get me wrong, you see, but I'm holding that button in my hand at the moment and, well, I was just thinking that if you and I...” That sounded very convincing, right on, Greg, he chided himself. Frustrated, he scrunched up the little plastic bag.

_“_ _What exactly do you have in mind regarding the button?”_

Greg took a deep breath. “I thought that although you don't want Sherlock to get Kersey, now that I know what's going on, I could do it, I mean, we could.”

_“_ _Greg, even I don't know who he is associated with, there's a considerable risk –“_

“I'm aware of that, but now that you told me how far I should go, I could minimise the danger.”

_“_ _There's no way to make this a safe operation, you've just a vague idea of the real danger.”_

Greg rolled his eyes. “Come on, I'm not your brother, I don't jump at the first sign of a suspect and follow him without thinking about the consequences. And I've got the whole police force behind me.”

There was a short pause. _“I still don't like the idea,”_ Mycroft said quietly.

“Yesterday you explained that our lives were similar to a degree and you were right. There are things we have to deal with, if we like them or not. It's our job, nothing more, nothing less.”

 _“_ _That is true,”_ Mycroft said and Greg heard him inhale. _“That doesn't mean that I have to approve of it gladly. Thank you for telling me about your plans, though.”_

“I'll be careful, I promise,” Greg joked.

 _“_ _Please do that,”_ Mycroft said, his voice heavy with worry.

“Oh, I... yes, of course,” Greg stuttered and hung up. Damn, he'd better not make a mess of this case, otherwise he himself would end up with a handler, just like Sherlock. Quite a protective streak in that elder Holmes, Greg mused. Strange, it made him so... human.

Almost cheerfully, he went down to forensics and personally gave Halder the button.

“Expecting something particularly interesting?” Halder asked when Greg filled in the necessary form.

“Sherlock,” was all he said and the forensic scientist grunted.

“That bugger keeps us occupied,” he said and took the plastic bag. Greg saw him disappear with it and at the end of the week he would swear that at that moment, time started to accelerate dramatically.

Already on that day, they found two fingerprints on the button. One belonged to a criminal who was in the database and the second was of a possible victim of a crime who had disappeared some time ago.

The next day, Greg made every available police officer swarm the city for their target or one of his associates and on Wednesday, they found a former prison inmate who had served time with him. One day later, the criminal’s flat was observed, he walked right into the trap and immediately betrayed Kersey to avoid being charged with murder.

And on Friday evening, finally, Greg was parking in the exact same spot in Richmond, coffee in hand like the week before but sitting in the seat of his own comfortable car. He watched Kersey being apprehended in his house and seeing the smug fucker being conducted to the police car was worth the drive.

Going by the extra hours he had worked that week, he had been officially off duty for half a day, but he couldn’t stay away when they surprised Kersey. Yet finishing his coffee, Greg couldn’t shake the impression that he hadn’t slept in a month, caffeine or no caffeine.

Tiredly, he drove home and parked down the road leading to his block of flats. He should go home now – his body clearly told him so. On closer consideration, his mind pointed out that he deserved a reward for the hellish week and the pub a little further down the road wasn’t that far away. It didn’t matter that he was alone and with some luck, it wouldn’t stay that way.

He sat down on the same bar stool again, ordering the same brand of beer – as if all that belonged to a ritual to bring about a certain event. Shaking his head, he laughed at his own stupidity. There was surely no rain dance to make Mycroft appear.

A shuffling told him that someone wanted sit down next to him and Greg whipped around.

“The seat’s taken, I’m sorry,” he said to the tarted up redhead and she immediately stalked away again.

Another fifteen minutes and a second beer later, Greg was undergoing a serious debate with himself what on earth had made him assume that Mycroft Holmes would come to that bar, uninvited, to drink beer with him of all people. He was just about to rebuff the next prospective occupant of the chair beside him who was drawing the stool away from the bar, when he heard the voice.

“I'm sorry to have made you wait,” it said and Greg decided to first wipe the goofy grin off his face before he turned his head. He couldn’t become any more pathetic, could he?

“No problem, more beer for me,” he said non-committedly and ignored his suddenly sweaty palms.

“Indeed.” Mycroft ordered the same as Greg had with two movements of his hand, and then settled on the stool, facing Greg rather than the bar.

Now what to do? Briefly Greg considered extending his hand, but it seemed too distanced for the quasi celebration they were having. Slapping his back again? No, that had been a test, nothing else, it felt definitely wrong to establish that kind of greeting between them.

Saving him from further ruminations, the beer arrived and when glasses clinked, the awkward moment was over. Like the preceding Sunday, they sat quietly, drinking their beer as if they had met in the same fashion for years.

“I suppose I don't have to tell you what happened,” Greg said.

“No, not in general,” Mycroft admitted. “But you could relate the events from your perspective.”

Tell me how your day was, Greg translated and grinned.

“You should've seen Kersey's face, he couldn't believe what was happening, the jerk.”

“I can easily imagine that.”

“But what came to my mind the whole time was your brother's face and how he would react to the news that I snatched Kersey away from him,” Greg said and frowned at the counter of the bar.

“We'll discover soon enough,” Mycroft ground out and when Greg turned his head, he saw the same look of glee and dread that he would most likely find on his own face as well.

“That’s life,” Greg shrugged and took another gulp. “But didn't it feel good?

“What exactly?”

“Telling each other, trusting in each other's judgement, that stuff.”

“Oh, _that_ _stuff_ ,” Mycroft mocked and Greg saw that the last word could barely pass his lips. Quite possibly hadn't said it since childhood. No, make that _ever_.

Greg gave him a good-natured smile in return and he was surprised to see that a slight sadness stole across Mycroft's face.

“You mean that it wasn't a good idea?” Greg asked nervously.

“On the contrary, it was a singularly exhilarating experience.” Mycroft’s eyes somehow lost their focus, staring through Greg. “It’s strange. I don't think I ever had one.”

“What?

“ _Who_ would be the question for that matter,” Mycroft explained absentmindedly. “A friend.”

The wistful look wouldn't leave his face, as if he needed time to understand how something like that could have happened. Feeling the telltale warmth of flushed skin on his throat, Greg tried to fight the pronounced urge to touch Mycroft at the same time. Could he mask a squeeze of the shoulders as some form of consolation? 

He opted for his usual emergency exit in emotionally charged situations instead. “Those are overrated anyway,” he quipped. “The last person I trusted made off with a PE teacher.”

Greg gave a laugh that didn't even convince himself, but before he could add another joke to gloss over his uneasiness, someone claimed the stool next to Mycroft, making him shift slightly towards Greg. The feeling of Mycroft's shoulder rubbing against his immediately threw Greg off track and he had problems following when Mycroft started talking again.

“You can't compare that.”

 _Compare what?_ Ah, yes, his ex-wife. “Of course not, I was only married,” Greg chuckled, winking at Mycroft to make him join in. “What we have is something a lot more important because we fight crime.”

Mycroft just raised an eyebrow and Greg cursed inwardly. That bastard wouldn’t help him out one bit.

“Come on,” he implored, floundering. “I'm just making fun because I can't deal with… serious moments like that.”

Holding his gaze, Mycroft's eyes didn't give anything away. “Serious is the wrong word,” he said neutrally and Greg's heart sank.

“What would you say instead?”

“Meaningful comes to my mind. What we established is meaningful,” Mycroft said. “To me,” he added quietly.

“That sounds... good. Sounds very good.” Greg said and slightly abashed, he turned his head to smile at the counter. Damn, he really wasn't made for conversations like that. Determined, he emptied the glass and glanced at his watch.

“I don’t want to sound rude or ungrateful or anything, but I’m knackered.”

“That’s understandable, the car will be ready in a minute.”

“No, no, thanks,” Greg protested and ignored the searching gaze that was directed at him. “This time I'm walking home.” More cosy time with Mycroft Holmes didn't seem such a good idea, another deeply felt declaration of friendship and he'd most likely say something incredibly stupid. Or better, do something unforgivable like hugging Mycroft.

“Greg, I'd appreciate it if you let me take you home. I mean it.”

“It'll do me good and wake me up a bit, otherwise I'd curl up in the hallway and sleep on the tiles because I can't make it to my bed.”

Contrary to his announcement, Greg nevertheless stayed where he was, shoulder to shoulder, the thought of his empty flat in mind. Was it even possible to invite Mycroft up for another beer? Would something like that _ever_ be possible?

If Mycroft hadn't got up, Greg was sure that he would have stayed like that for the rest of the night, just to revel in the proximity of another body. Yet outside the pub, he was facing the same difficulties again when he took Mycroft's extended hand. The warmth and the pressure were almost addictively reassuring.

“Take good care of yourself, Greg,” Mycroft said and gradually let go of his hand.

“You're always saying that. Why?” Greg asked and shook his head. “You know I can.”

A hard line formed around Mycroft's mouth, just to be replaced by a tiny, rather forced smile. “Yes, I know.” Quickly, he disappeared into the limousine and Greg started to walk in the direction of his flat at a brisk pace.

He had to focus. He wouldn’t reach for his mobile and phone Mycroft again to bid him a proper goodnight. All he had to do was open the door to his flat, but quietly because Mrs Dovel always complained about his noise when he came back from duty, and slip out of his shoes. Already about to take off his jacket as well, he froze.

He wasn’t alone in the flat. Greg heard someone rummaging around in his living room and instinctively, he reached for his weapon. Of course he didn't have a weapon on him, great, but there was one not far away – in the living room.

The flat fell silent and Greg inched forward. He was just about to sneak past the entrance to the kitchen, when he realised that he had made a fatal mistake: that noise before hadn’t been the chest of drawers in the living room. It was the kitchen cabinet.

The moment the thought shot through his head, he already felt the impact of a body on him. His head collided with the frame of the door, but he simultaneously kicked and punched his attacker, not knowing what exactly he hit.

Grabbing the black clad figure and trying to immobilise him in a choke hold, he had to enter some kind of bizarre dance that saw them both stumbling into the kitchen. The bugger was strong, it crossed Greg’s mind when he received a punch in the ribs, but not strong enough, and before he could grab whatever weapon he had with him, there had to be a way to overpower him.

With his entire physical strength, Greg pushed against him and they almost ran towards the wall. It was already too late when Greg realised that it hadn’t been the wall he was aiming for, the loud cracking of glass announcing the explosion of shards around him. The burglar, whose back had made the window break, seemed to be surprised by the course of events and made a rather desperate attempt to reach for something apart from Greg, coming out empty-handed.

Greg felt the trousers of the guy slip through his fingers when he tried to hold on to them and then there was a thud when his body made contact with the pavement.

Taking out his mobile, Greg automatically chose the emergency number. On his way downstairs, he called the local police and the Yard, and sirens already permeated the night when he had reached his attacker.

He had a pulse. Manoeuvring the man in a recovery position even made him regain consciousness for a short moment and Greg couldn’t resist the possibility to question him.

“Why were you here?” But there was no answer.

“Who sent you?”

The guy either didn’t want to speak or couldn’t and the paramedics were already arriving, a police car in tow.

“Flat's open, secure everything, I'll be with you in a minute,” he said to one of the policemen and watched the paramedics attach all kinds of equipment to the injured attacker and strap him up on a gurney at the same time.

“Could you briefly follow me to give a short statement of the incidents?” a friendly voice asked and Greg followed the officer to the second police car that had arrived at the scene.

“Now please get inside of the car, I don’t want to use force.” The officer turned around and Greg realised that he had never seen the man. The weapon that was pointing at him was the more remarkable realisation, though.

“Are you fucking crazy? Abducting me at a crime scene?” Greg asked him incredulously, but the stony face wasn’t up to discussions, so much was clear.

“Get in.”

A hand reached into his jacket and snatched out his phone before he bowed down to scramble onto the seat and Greg cursed. Shit, they had got him after all. They had even stolen a real police car, so there was no getting out, and the silent driver who took him through London wouldn’t be of much help either.

Rather careless of them to show him exactly where they were taking him, Greg thought, alarmed. That could just mean one thing: there was no danger of him ever getting the chance to tell anybody.

Slightly panicky, Greg was still devising possible escapes when the car stopped in front of an exclusive house in Westminster. His driver got out of the car and opened the back door, and although there was no gun pointed at him this time, the bulge in the driver’s jacket showed that he had one on him.

A nod of a head directed Greg in the direction of the entrance and the moment he arrived at the black wooden door, it was opened quickly, the brightly lit hallway briefly dazzling his eyes.

“Good evening. And welcome,” Mycroft’s voice resonated through the night.


	5. Chapter 5

“Mycroft?”

Taking advantage of his confused state of mind, Mycroft pulled him inside the house and the door behind them shut with a strange noise – as if something was heavily clicking into place. Blinking, Greg tried to adjust his eyes to the light.

“I'm sorry that you're becoming acquainted with my house under such circumstances, but that's not to say I'm any less pleased to have you here,” Mycroft said, but his expression changed from general friendliness to worry.

“That guy had a gun,” Greg said, still befuddled. Instead of answering him, Mycroft reached out with his hand, stopping just an inch before he touched Greg’s forehead.

“You're bleeding. Come with me. I’ll get you a plaster.” Mycroft turned to walk down the hallway and without thinking, Greg followed him to one of the many doors. Peeking inside the room Mycroft had entered, Greg saw him searching for something in a bathroom cabinet, and the surreal combination of Mycroft and such a mundane object snapped Greg out of his trance.

“Fuck the plaster, I want an explanation,” he ground out when Mycroft handed him the strip. “You’re going to tell me immediately what’s going on,” Greg growled, trying to ignore Mycroft's exasperated frown. “Are you hearing me?”

“Of course I'm hearing you,” Mycroft said with a stern look. No longer expecting any cooperation with the plaster, he ripped off the protective strips and stuck it on Greg's forehead without further warning. “But you're hurt and tired, so first you have to rest.”

Firm hands grabbed his shoulders and Greg realised that he had been swaying a little.

“Go to sleep,” Mycroft commanded, fixing him with his gaze. “Everything is all right. Trust me.”

The moment he heard those words, Greg felt such a pronounced physical exhaustion that he briefly entertained the thought of slumping down to the parquet floor, but a hand gave his back a gentle push and without offering any resistance, he let himself be guided upstairs.

“Here you'll find everything you need for the moment,” Mycroft said after they had entered one of the rooms. “And don't worry about tomorrow, I'll take care of that.”

Greg stared at the open wardrobe. Pyjamas, underwear, a dressing gown – but what for? As if trying to ground him again, the hand that had ushered him upstairs found its way around the back of his head.

“You have to sleep now,” Mycroft said softly but his eyes made it clear that this was an order.

Then they were gone – eyes, hands, everything Mycroft – but automatically, Greg undressed and clambered into bed. Damn, his head hurt. He should...

What was wrong with his bed? Greg opened his eyes and saw the rays of the sun dancing on the ceiling in an unfamiliar pattern. That was not his room. Had he accidentally stayed overnight on a one-night stand?

A glance at the bed didn’t reveal any company, yet scanning the unobtrusive but elegant furniture in the room unravelled the mystery of his host: there was only one person in his life who would know where to buy a wardrobe like that… and also have the money to do so.

Slowly, Greg heaved his aching body out of bed, and with the pain, the memories of the preceding night came back. But why the heck was he just wearing his briefs? Mycroft hadn’t undressed him, had he?

Greg searched his memory and was relieved to recall the episode where he was shown the contents of the wardrobe but afterwards just undressed and passed out on the bed.

Throwing on the dressing gown, Greg left the room and looked down the hallway. One of the doors had to be the bathroom – another riddle that unfortunately wouldn’t be solved that easily.

“Good morning.”

Greg jumped and whipped around. “Jesus, Mycroft, is that sneaking thing something they taught all of you Holmeses in nursery?”

“We never went to nursery,” Mycroft said evenly. “The bathroom is the third door on the right.”

So the stealth, like the mind reading, was genetic, Greg deduced, but despite the fact that all the questions he had never asked were answered, he couldn’t move. Instead, his eyes were magnetically drawn to the chest hair on the patch of skin above the collar of Mycroft’s pyjamas.

“Anything else?” Mycroft asked and Greg tried to tear his eyes away.

“No, no, I was just wondering, you look… different,” he said and slowly, he was able to persuade his gaze to wander upwards to the face.

“I take the liberty of not shaving at the weekend.” Of course. A five o’clock shadow.

“Wow, that’s a hell of a liberty to take,” Greg laughed. “You and your brother look as if you can't grow a beard, as closely shaven as you always are. I’m… impressed.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t take that much then, does it?”

 _A typical Holmes, that should effectively scare anyone away_ , Greg thought, but he couldn’t move regardless, still rooted to the spot by something he wasn’t able explain.

“The aftershave is produced by a small family business in southern France. Very friendly people, actually,” Mycroft said knowingly.

What the …? Greg’s mind was both too tired and too distracted to keep up with the events, and so it waited until Mycroft gave a reassuring smile before he turned around.

“I’ll be waiting for you downstairs.”

Greg watched him walk away and slouched his shoulders. Another Holmes could read him like a book, it was a real disgrace.

And God, was it really necessary to give such a blatant display of an over-active libido? Greg chided himself. Yet it appeared that Mycroft was ready to ignore those untoward slips, so there was no danger of ruining their friendship.

Of course those blunders shouldn’t become too pronounced, and when Greg tried to find his way in the frighteningly high-tech bathroom, he was sure that he’d feel so incredibly uncomfortable in those alien surroundings that there was no chance for him to relax and embarrass himself any further.

He escaped the wellness hell as quickly as he could and back in his room, he wondered what he should wear. Having no real options, he donned silk boxers and pyjamas, and their contact with his skin was so unfamiliar that he briefly felt as though he wasn't dressed at all. Just the dressing gown made him feel presentable again.

Downstairs, the door to the kitchen was wide open and in true Holmesian fashion, Mycroft sat at the table, hidden behind a newspaper. Greg didn’t want to cause another bout of considerateness and so directly grabbed two slices of toast to put in the toaster.

Waiting for the bread to pop up, Greg was wondering what all the buttons on the toaster were for, when a strange feeling crept up his spine.

Slowly, he turned around and there they were again: the grey eyes that he remembered so vividly from the night before.

Mycroft had emerged from behind his newspaper and was looking at him. Greg couldn’t say how, just that he had never seen that expression on Mycroft’s face before and it immediately caused such an intense feeling of self-consciousness that his mind finally woke up from the strange daze of the preceding half hour.

Looking down on himself, Greg had to acknowledge that something was absolutely wrong with this picture: he was standing in Mycroft’s kitchen, in pyjamas and dressing gown, and was about to enjoy a quiet breakfast.

As if nothing had happened at all! Something had lulled him into acquiescence and he blamed it on the silk caressing his crotch.

Greg grabbed his toast and sat down at the table. “Why am I here?”

“As I said: it’s for your own protection,” Mycroft answered and sipped his tea. “Do you prefer coffee? I could make you some.”

Burying his nose in his hands, Greg tried to focus. “Stop that, will you? I thought we had an agreement? I want the truth, nothing more.”

Sobering, Mycroft leaned back in his chair and his face became pinched. He hesitated for a moment, obviously debating with himself how much he should reveal, but then exhaled loudly.

“Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to go after Kersey,” he said and when Greg wanted to interrupt him, he stopped him with a wave of his hand. “I know, he’s a murderer and it was right to do so, but I told you that there were greater powers involved and that our actions might have consequences.”

“And what exactly does that have to do with me being here?”

“You’re the central figure now, Greg, you’re the one who initiated the investigation and the arrest, so you’ll be the one made responsible for everything.”

“Well, that’s my job,” Greg said but Mycroft’s closed-off face made him increasingly uneasy.

“Let me finish, please.” A brief pause followed, and when he spoke it seemed that Mycroft could barely force the words out. “To sum it up, it would mean that getting rid of you is the perfect statement to stop anyone from meddling in such affairs. To set an example, so to speak.”

“What?” Greg shouted. “You mean that this guy yesterday was there to kill me?”

“It would seem so, yes,” Mycroft said quietly.

“Okay, then I know what I have to do. Where is he? Is he alive?”

“Yes, but barely. He’s heavily injured and still unconscious.”

“Then I’ll start with something else.” Greg looked at the clock on the wall. “Mmh, who is on duty this weekend?”

“Greg, it doesn’t matter,” Mycroft said and leaned forward.

“Of course it does. When Smith’s there, I can’t –“

“That’s inconsequential,” the determined voice ground out. “You're not going anywhere.

“I'm not?”

“No.” Regaining his composure, Mycroft leaned back in his chair again and started cutting up an apple, fingers skilfully manoeuvring the sharp knife.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I said that you’re here for your own protection. And you’ll stay here.”

“What? You think you can lock me up?” Greg asked incredulously. This wasn’t happening, was it?

“I know I can. This house is as much a prison as it is a fortress,” Mycroft said. “And I made sure that your clothes will be brought here when forensics are finished with your flat.”

“Thanks so much,” Greg scoffed but Mycroft just took a slice of the apple and retreated behind the newspaper again.

“You’re welcome.”

Effectively shut out by the wall of paper, Greg tried to gulp down some toast together with his tea, but he was so angry that he couldn't get down more than half a slice.

“This is bullshit!” His fist on the table made the cutlery clatter on the plates and the dishes vibrate; Mycroft, on the other hand, didn't stir.

“Could you specify your concerns?” he asked from behind the newspaper.

“All of this! Someone wants me dead and I have to be out there, hunting the bastard!”

At a loss for what to do with his anger, Greg jumped up, his mug whisked off the table by an incautious movement of his hand. Its crashing to the floor immobilised Greg, who briefly fought against his urge to pick up the shards.

Mycroft in turn came back to life by the noise. Slowly, he folded the newspaper, stood up to approach Greg at a measured step, and stopped just inches away from him, almost nose to nose.

“Are you done?” he asked, his voice ten degrees below room temperature. Greg narrowed his eyes. It didn't matter that he was feeling immensely stupid because of the mug. He wouldn’t give in now.

Yet the conviction to stand his ground didn’t automatically mean that he knew how to deal with the grey eyes that were staring him down. Shit, the bastard wasn’t even that much taller.

“Then let me tell you something,” Mycroft said, his voice making it unmistakably clear that he didn’t expect any interruption. “You don’t have the faintest idea of whom you’re dealing with. I’m trying to arrange several possibilities at the moment but that takes time. In the meanwhile, you will stay here.”

For a moment, Greg was too distracted by Mycroft’s eyes and so didn’t feel his anger until it was already boiling over. Before his brain registered it, his hands had grabbed Mycroft by his collar, pushing him backwards so that he was trapped against the kitchen counter.

“Does that mean that I don’t have a choice?” Greg barked, glowering at him.

“No,” Mycroft said, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. “There’s always a choice. You could take one of the kitchen knives, have me in a choke hold and point it at my carotid. Or you could use that knife to slash your wrists so that I’d be forced to take you to hospital. Or...“ he growled and inclined his head, “you could do all kinds of other things.”

It was the smell again, Greg was almost convinced of that. There was no other explanation for the fact that he had the sudden urge to bury his nose in the crook of Mycroft’s neck. He didn’t even have to move to reach it, because Mycroft advanced to whisper in Greg’s ear.

“You just have to make the choice.”


	6. Chapter 6

Greg froze. Mycroft was too near, his body too warm and his voice too gentle. Much too gentle – as if it wanted to wrap him up in a pleasant breeze.

Bewildered, Greg took a step back, letting go of Mycroft's collar. When he dared to look up again, he saw the formerly steely gaze lose its fierceness until it just held a slight trace of reproach.

Great, that was surely the look Sherlock received when he had gone overboard again, Greg thought, and the anger returned with a vengeance. There was no way he would become one of the projects Mycroft cultivated to live out his control issues in his free time.

He turned away, but immediately a hand clutched his wrist.

“Greg,” Mycroft said softly, but let go of his arm when Greg wrenched free.

“Bullshit,” was all that came to Greg’s mind again, and he stomped out of the kitchen to rattle at the front door for good measure – just to make his point. Of course it was locked, but that gave him a reason to go on swearing when he marched to his room and in turn, the profanities underlined the slamming of the door nicely.

Everything made sense and was absolutely reasonable behaviour according to Greg’s mind. That was until Greg was standing in the middle of his room, surrounded only by silence. In that moment, reason took over again and its verdict was clear: he had acted like a complete moron.

Greg clenched his teeth. Leaving the kitchen like a teenager in a huff, cursing loudly and slamming doors. Damn, he really should know better than to make himself an object of ridicule in the face of a Holmes.

Contemplating how to save the rest of his dignity, he spent some time pacing, trying out possible escape routes through the windows (he supposed that they were bullet proof) and glaring at the wall, until he heard a knock on the door.

Slowly, Greg opened it and outside, Mycroft waited with a travel bag. He just extended his arm a little to indicate that the bag was meant for Greg, and if Greg hadn’t known it better, he would have said that Mycroft Holmes was slightly at a loss for what to do.

“Look, I’m sorry for the way I behaved,” Greg said and reached out for the bag. Not letting go of the handle, Mycroft continued to look at him in that odd way, as if he was only slowly grasping what was going on. Both holding on to the bag, their fingers touched but Mycroft seemed to be unable to let loose.

“I understand your point, Greg, I do,” he said warily. “I just want you to try and understand mine as well.”

Holding the expectant gaze directed at him, Greg took a deep breath. “Of course I understand what you’re trying to do. It’s actually quite… nice to have somebody… uh… look out for you.”

The relief on Mycroft’s face wasn’t very pronounced but the fact that it was visible at all spoke volumes. He released the bag and smiled that strange smile Greg still couldn't place.

“Until... later,” Mycroft said and turned to go. Greg nodded and closed the door, mouthing a curse when he was alone again.

Shit, what was going on? There was _something_ going on, though, but he was surely misinterpreting the signs _. Jesus, Greg, the man is just being nice to you,_ he reproached himself. _Get a grip_.

While he was dressing in his own clothes again, he wondered why it was so incredibly hard to make sense of Mycroft's actions. Maybe it was the fact that he was a Holmes and that the entire bunch was slightly barmy anyway, yet maybe it was just the unusual proximity that threw them both off track.

Because honestly, what did they know about each other?

Greg left his room and followed the sound of classical music downstairs. So Mycroft listened to classical music, what a surprise. Greg recognised the piece playing, it had been in a concert his ex-wife had insisted on going to as a part of their marriage-fixing-through-culture programme. And at the same time she had already been shagging the PE teacher.

Greg snorted. What did it matter that he didn't know anything about Mycroft? He hadn't known much about his wife either.

Aiming for the open door, he stepped into what appeared to be a library if it hadn’t been for the music. In an armchair, completely calm and composed, sat Mycroft, and beside the stubble, he had returned to his usual appearance.

Greg grunted. “Aren’t you afraid to get stuck in that stereotype?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I mean, do you always have to wear that bourgeois-superhero suit? And is that your signature tune?” Greg asked and compressed his lips to refrain from laughing out loud, but when Mycroft didn't say anything and just started to glower at him, Greg gave in.

“The shirt, the waistcoat, Wagner!” he exclaimed accusingly, grinning at Mycroft. The only answer was a frown and without saying a word, Mycroft got up and walked past him to leave the room.

“Bugger,” Greg cursed and plunked down into a chair. Two sentences and he had already crossed one of those invisible lines. He stared at the door but after some time, he gave up. What sense would it make to disappear only to return a couple of minutes later?

In Mycroft Holmes' world, it wouldn't make any sense at all, Greg assumed. Unless he wanted to make a statement – which seemed to be the case. Just as silently as he had left, Mycroft entered the room again. Graciously, he sat down in the chair next to Greg and took out his phone to aim it at some spot among the books.

It wasn't so much the fact that suddenly the Rolling Stones were blaring out of the invisible speakers that unsettled Greg. It was the sight of Mycroft Holmes in dark blue jeans and a light blue linen shirt with rolled-up sleeves that nearly knocked him from his chair.    

“Better?” Mycroft said and turned his head – a merciless move, Greg thought, because he just couldn't keep himself from staring at the strange manifestation next to him.

Obviously all the Holmes' could orchestrate a grand show from scratch. Mick Jagger complained that he couldn’t get any satisfaction, while in contrast, Mycroft looked immensely pleased with what he saw on Greg’s face.

“Don’t you have any AC/DC?” Greg asked, desperately trying to keep a cool façade.

“Of course,” Mycroft said and swished through some lists on his smartphone. Choosing an icon immediately produced ‘Highway to Hell’ and Greg wished he had opted for something a bit more relaxing. Trying to sneak a peek at the miracle mobile, Greg leaned over the armrest of his chair. 

“What else can you do with it?”

“With this?” Mycroft waved the phone. “You could try and guess.”

“Hmm, you’ve got the prime minister on speed dial and he answers at the second ring,” Greg tried and Mycroft waggled his eyebrows. ”Okay, that’s as good as a hundred per cent sure. Wait, when I nick it and try to activate it, I’m taken down by some dubious squad and no one will ever hear of me again.”

“Well, _ever_ is maybe a slight exaggeration –“

“And there’s an app that looks like you’re playing some game,” Greg interjected. “But in reality, it’s directly connected to a drone somewhere in Afghanistan.”

“Come on,” Mycroft chided. “I’m the executive but not _the_ executive.”

Smirking, Mycroft leaned back in his seat and Greg watched him school his face into that detached mask again.

“You’re a very powerful man, aren’t you?” he asked but Mycroft only shrugged.

“Not in comparison to a lot of other men in the world.”

“And this here,” Greg waved his hand to indicate their surroundings. “This is what you do? At the weekend, to relax from all that power?”

“Reading, listening to music, yes, that’s about it,” Mycroft said non-committally, and Greg gave a laugh.

“You’ve got quite a lot of pyjamas for a recluse,” he stated. “You must get one or two visitors.”

The look Mycroft gave him made Greg painfully aware of his blunder, but again, Mycroft glossed it over with a smile. Maybe there was room for playful banter after all, Greg thought and decided to let his guard down a bit.

“Sometimes, Sherlock had to stay here overnight and he didn’t have the fitting attire most of the time.”

“What about big business from all over the world?” Greg asked.

“Occasionally.”

“International spies trying to get information through more unconventional methods?” Greg jeered and Mycroft pretended to get lost in thought, eyes full of mock wistfulness.

“Very rare, unfortunately.”

“The service is great, though,” Greg laughed. “I’ve never got silk pyjamas when I stayed somewhere.”

“A pity, they fit you extraordinarily well,” Mycroft drawled and leaned over the armrest of the seat, grinning. Abashed, Greg looked the other way and decided to let the topic drop. He even seemed to be out of his league in the ‘friendly banter’ category. It was either that or Mycroft Holmes was flirting with him. Which was impossible.

Mycroft straightened again and Greg assumed that he had sensed his uneasiness. “How can I amuse you?” he asked, the mask firmly in place again.

“What? You don’t know what I do in my free time?”

“I like to be informed, but I’m not a stalker,” Mycroft said, clearly offended.

“Yeah, you let other people do that for you,” Greg scoffed. “Never mind, well, I go jogging; you know that I like to go out; and I used to see friends although it seems my wife got those in the divorce settlement and I missed that point. So: nothing we can do here.”

“I’m sorry.” Mycroft’s voice carried genuine concern and suddenly Greg felt like the worst guest ever. Hell, the man could deliver a brainwashing with less than a handful of words.

“I’ll try your approach for a change,” Greg said and stood up to walk along the bookshelves. “Ah, I know that guy, he was on TV, didn’t know he wrote books as well.”

“I would definitely recommend his works. They’re very entertaining.”

“ _The Liar_ ,” Greg chuckled. “How fitting. I think I’ll give it a try. You might even switch back to the classical music.”

“Very generous of you,” Mycroft said and Greg couldn’t refrain from throwing him a glance to meet the smile he had already heard in the voice.

For the rest of the afternoon, much to Greg’s unending surprise, he really managed to sit in a chair, reading. If he remembered correctly, that had happened last almost four years ago during a horrible holiday, when he had used any pretence to avoid his ex.

The peaceful atmosphere of the afternoon was interrupted just twice: once when Mycroft brought him tea and sandwiches, and again when the sun started to set.

“What are we doing this evening?” Greg asked.

“We cook,” Mycroft said matter-of-factly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much, CrackshotKate, for helping me out when my imagination fails me. In this chapter, it was Mycroft Holmes' casual wear - it simply didn't exist in my head :)


	7. Chapter 7

“That’s a joke, isn’t it?” Greg asked and frowned at the dozens of packages in the cupboard in front of him. “Why do you need so many different shapes and sizes? It’s all bloody pasta.”

“I happen to disagree, Greg. It’s consistency, the feel, the way it interacts with the sauce, how much of it you need to coat it – those are all very relevant differences,” Mycroft growled and Greg felt him breathing down his neck.

When the sensation sent shivers down his spine, Greg asked himself why a puff of breath had such an effect on him. Sherlock had no respect for personal space either, yet all it triggered in Greg was the urge to elbow him in the ribs.

“Aha,” he said and wondered why someone as controlled as Mycroft wasn’t able to keep a certain distance. Maybe all the Holmses were socially awkward somehow.

“There are sensorial worlds between each of them,” the voice purred and briefly, the option that Mycroft was indeed flirting with him came to Greg’s mind again. Then again, that would make this some kind of noodle dirty talk and that definitely didn’t belong in the realm of the possible.

“What about the sauce?” he asked quickly and was relieved to see Mycroft stride to the fridge to open it.

“Do you like mushrooms?”

“Sure, I’m surprised you even have something like mushrooms,” Greg remarked and took out a package with ordinary spaghetti.

“What’s wrong with them?”

“Nothing, just… They’re not penny buns or those Chinese thingies that look like ears, you know what I mean.” Greg laughed when Mycroft made a face.

“Shiitake?”

“Suppose that’s them. Thought you’d be some kind of gourmet or something,” he added, eyeing the box Mycroft had placed on the counter.

“Oh, I am,” Mycroft said but Greg scrunched up his face in disbelief.

“With ordinary mushrooms?”

“Greg.” He came nearer again and leaned on the counter, cocking his head. “If you’ve got a taste for, let’s say, the more common cuisine, it doesn’t make you any less of a connoisseur.”

“It doesn’t?” Greg asked, caught up in the gaze of those eyes again. He knew he should move but found that he couldn’t.

"In fact, my experience shows that it’s the simple tastes that allow for the most… variation,” Mycroft said and raised an eyebrow.

“O-kay.” What the heck were they talking about? “You brush them and I cut them up?” Greg tried, because there might have been the possibility that the topic of their conversation was still vegetables.

“That’s fine with me,” Mycroft answered and handed him a knife and a chopping board.

Clenching his teeth, Greg set to work. He was reading more into this than was actually there, he was sure of it. Mycroft wouldn’t declare he was happy to have a friend and then jump his bones, would he?

“You’re quite accident prone this weekend,” a voice invaded his thoughts and Greg snapped out of them. He hadn’t even realised that he had cut his thumb.

Quickly, he grabbed a tissue and stopped the bleeding, only peripherally aware of the fact that Mycroft left the room. Suddenly someone took hold of his hand.

“I would’ve expected your weapons handling to be slightly more adept,” Mycroft said but Greg only caught snatches of the sentence. Turning his head towards the counter to at least avert Mycroft’s eyes, he focused his entire energy on staying in control of his body.

Bugger, why did Mycroft need such an inordinate amount of time to find the right place for the plaster? The soft rubbing over the adhesive strip to make it stick to his skin went directly to Greg’s groin and he felt perspiration break out on his neck.

Greg was considering a panicky retreat when a sharp pain brought him back to reality.

“I don’t think you need that anymore,” Mycroft said and Greg clutched his forehead where the other plaster had been.

“A little warning maybe?” Greg grumbled, immensely thankful for the distraction.

Quickly, he finished cutting the mushrooms and retreated to the kitchen table to watch Mycroft prepare the sauce. It was impossible. Mycroft wasn’t flirting with him. It was simply the fact that getting to know the nice, funny man behind the text messages came as a bit of a surprise and threw him off track, Greg decided.

“Wine?” Mycroft asked but uncorked the bottle without waiting for Greg’s answer.

 _And he doesn’t want to get me sloshed,_ Greg told himself, yet after a delicious meal and the fourth glass, he wasn’t so sure any more.

“What are we doing afterwards?” he asked warily and Mycroft’s face lit up.

“I’ve got a recording of an unplugged Santana concert.”

“From where?”

“Buckingham Palace.”

“Oh.” Greg stood up and swaying slightly, he aimed for what he thought was the right direction to the library. Glad to have found it, he sat down on the sofa and propped up his legs.

“Woah, this is one hell of a comfortable sofa.”

Mycroft laughed and performed some mobile magic again, filling the room with soothing guitar music.

He definitely needed a sofa like that, Greg thought and closed his eyes. But he wondered why Mycroft had switched on the ceiling lamp because it was almost bright daylight with that thing.

“Gregory,” a voice purred and Greg’s eyes adapted to the light. It wasn’t just bright around him, it was also pleasantly warm, a soft summer breeze caressing his skin.

His fingers intertwined with someone else’s and were tugged lightly.

“Come with me.”

Of course he would. That voice could get him anywhere.

Feeling the sand between his toes, the sound of the sea no more than a whisper, Greg met the well-known grey eyes and let himself be drawn nearer by their allure. Just a bit nearer, a tiny bit…

“Gregory,” Mycroft growled, the scent of his aftershave mingling with the salty air. He reached out and cradled Greg’s head, combing through his hair.

“Wake up.”

“What?”

“Wake up,” he said again and the azure sky suddenly disappeared. Instead, Greg’s eyes tried to discern something in the half light of a room.

“Gregory, the sofa is rather comfortable but you should nonetheless sleep in your bed.”

There really was a hand touching his head, and Greg fought the urge to lean into it when he felt it retreating. Why did it go away? He needed more of that glorious feeling.

 _Shit!_ flashed through Greg’s mind, which was suddenly wide awake. Directing his attention south, he nearly sighed with relief because despite the telltale stirring in his groin, there was no pronounced erection.

“I… you’re right, I should go to bed,” he stuttered and scrambled to his feet. Slightly wobbly on his legs because of the alcohol, he brushed past Mycroft and hurried to the door.

“Greg?”

“Yeah, night.” Greg lifted his hand but didn’t turn around. His escape was more important at that moment.

In his room, he tried to redirect his mind to the tasks at hand: changing into his pyjamas and sleeping. Yet he couldn’t completely avert a haunting from his former dream, no matter how often he told himself that Mycroft wasn’t flirting with him. _He wasn’t_ , he told his subconscious before he fell asleep.

 _He was_ , his subconscious replied and kicked him awake.

Snapping his eyes open, the rays of the morning sun already peeking through the curtains, Greg tried to calm his racing pulse.

Shit, shit, shit, of course Mycroft was flirting with him. God, how could he have been so blind?

After hectically climbing out of bed, he pulled on his dressing gown but his trembling hands were unable to tie the belt. Should he shower? Yes, definitely, Greg decided, and then...?

A look in the mirror showed the traces of too much alcohol and a sleeping pattern in disarray and therefore Greg first peeked through the crack of the door before he left the room. There was no way he would cross Mycroft’s path in such a state.

The shower calmed him down a little and after towelling down his hair, he paused to take stock of himself. What was going on with him? His pulse was raised and his brain felt as if it was short-circuited. He wasn’t having a heart attack, was he?

Shaking his head in astonishment, he marvelled at his foolishness. It had been such a long time since he had last encountered that strangely exhilarating feeling that he didn’t even recognise it any more.

Grinning like a madman, he threw on his dressing gown again and left the bathroom. The next time Mycroft made a pass on him, he knew what he had to do.

Coaxed downstairs by a heavenly smell, he found Mycroft in the kitchen, just about to add another pancake to a stack.

“Good morning. Help yourself,” Mycroft said, pulling the pan away from the cooker and sitting down. Greg just stared, his plan of action completely thrown.

“During my entire marriage, my wife never once made me pancakes.”

The comment just was worth a raised eyebrow and Greg conceded that Mycroft was right. There was no way in hell he should compare his ex with him. She’d come out even worse than her standing already was. Why the hell had he led such a life?

“I’m sorry to have reminded you of that time,” Mycroft said quietly.

“No, oh God, no, that’s okay, everybody’s responsible for their own unhappiness.” Greg grinned and put a pancake on a plate. “Treacle?”

“Yes, please.”

Fortunately, the pancakes weren’t very dark, so the colour of the treacle stood out noticeably, just like the ‘are you kidding me’ face Mycroft made at the sight of the smiley adorning his food.

Greg shrugged. “Well, my mum used to do that and as you repeatedly patched me up yesterday, I thought I’d take over the caring part today,” he joked and at the same time shook his head in disbelief. “Damn, we’re so pathetic.”

“We’re just enjoying some unexpected domesticity. That’s all,” Mycroft stated and cut the smiley in half.

“Yeah, I guess we’ve earned that,” Greg said and pulled a pancake on his plate.

When he sat down, he knew what to expect, and this time, he held Mycroft’s gaze, answering it with a smile. And when Mycroft seemed to have looked his fill and resumed his morning routine, Greg followed him as if he had never done anything else.

When the tea was gone and the last pancake obliterated, he couldn’t help becoming slightly restless. Something would happen, maybe now, maybe later, but he couldn’t wait for it – as if he was a giddy schoolgirl with a crush.

Trying to give himself something to do, Greg got up to clear up his plate and when he arrived at the dishwasher, his nose caught the familiar scent again.

“What would you like to do today?” Mycroft asked, the puff of his breath tickling Greg’s neck. “You know I’d do anything to make you feel comfortable.”

“Yeah, I know you would,” Greg drawled but then stopped. Of course he would.

He felt as if he was doubling over because someone might as well have punched him in the stomach. The feeling was so devastating that he grabbed the counter to stabilise himself.

Mycroft didn't want to seduce him. He did what he always did: achieving his aims by any means and it didn't matter what it took to get there. So if he wanted to keep him in the house, what was easier than appease him with wine and pancakes sprinkled with one or two well-placed innuendos?

Greg clenched his fists. God, he was such an idiot. How could he have assumed that Mycroft would seriously...

“Greg?” The voice wavered slightly but just hearing it was unbearable. Barging against Mycroft when he stormed out of the kitchen, Greg tuned out the shouts that were directed at him. He took two stairs at a time to reach his room as quickly as possible and shed the pyjamas and the dressing gown.

Bloody silk. He put on his own clothes and threw the scattered rest back into the bag, not caring if he had everything accounted for. Mycroft could keep his socks and choke on them.

He shouldered his bag and marched out of his room. Already from the staircase, he could see Mycroft, waiting for him downstairs.

“Open the door,” Greg growled although he hadn't even reached the landing.

“Greg, what is –?"

“I said open that goddamn door!” he shouted and saw Mycroft's face closing off.

“I don’t think so,” he said through clenched teeth, making Greg's rage reach boiling point. He threw his bag on the floor and grabbed Mycroft's dressing gown, pushing him backwards so forcefully that Mycroft winced when he collided with the wall.

“You…” Greg snarled and pressed Mycroft’s body against the wall, felt him breathing, the warmth he radiated, the eyes... 

“Here we go again,” Mycroft said and smirked, although it looked rather strained. “How is it going to end this time?”

The bastard. He wouldn’t let himself be used like that again, no matter what their proximity triggered in him. Letting go of his collar while pushing himself off his body at the same time, Greg then stepped back until he had reached the door.

“This is going to end. That’s all. And if you don’t let me go, I’ll call the entire police force to free a kidnapped DI.”

Mycroft reached into his dressing gown's pocket and produced his mobile. A swish and the mechanisms in the door whirred.  

“Please, Greg, don’t go now.”

Greg shook his head and opened the door. “Why shouldn’t I?” he asked and crossed the threshold.

“I need you to be safe,” he heard behind him, but he didn’t turn around.


	8. Chapter 8

“How was the food?”

“What food?” Greg looked up from his desk and Miller from Protection Command grinned at him expectantly.

“The food at witness protection. You know, the place where you’ve been in the last 36 hours,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “People are always complaining, and I’m starting to think that they just do it to annoy us. What did you think, as a kind of neutral party, I mean.”

“Uh, the food?” Greg procrastinated, trying to piece the snippets of information together. “The food was… okay.”

So that was the reason no one had questioned where he'd been. Mycroft had made sure that his absence was explained by an order from above and he even went as far as involving another department.

“I knew it,” Miller said and ambled away, murmuring something under his breath.

Staring back at his monitor, Greg addressed himself with the task of getting back to work on the case. That had been the reason why he had opted to go to the Yard instead of his flat – the place he should have already been a day earlier, rather than reading and cooking!

Clenching his teeth, he tried to concentrate, but the body they had found and identified as the bearer of the second fingerprint on the button provided no more evidence. The man was a mechanic with no criminal record, and the guy who had betrayed Kersey swore that he didn’t know why he had to kidnap him.

Clicking through the photos, he realised that the longer he looked at them, the more they started to blend into each other, so he gave up. The heavy dejectedness that was dragging him down wasn’t the best precondition for successful police work and he wished that he could have spared himself a restaging of that well-known feeling.

Greg sighed. It was exactly the way he had felt in preceding years, with the difference that during his marriage, he hadn’t really known anymore what he had been missing.

He grabbed his jacket and his bag, but when he reached the elevator, Miller was suddenly at his side again.

“Night duty?” Greg wondered.

“Yeah, but why are you asking?” Miller put on his jacket and stepped into the elevator with Greg.

“Erm, what?” Greg’s mind was racing. “You mean you’re here because of me?”

“Of course. The car’s in the underground car park.”

Great, Greg thought, everything had just turned out as he had anticipated. Everyone who had something to do with Mycroft ended up under disability somehow, and when they arrived at Greg’s block of flats, he didn’t even have to turn around to know that Miller wouldn’t drive away again.

He watched him from his kitchen window and briefly considered asking him up for a drink, but Miller would excuse himself with his orders and Greg wasn’t really up for company anyway.

The next day, though, he was rather glad that he had someone to drive him to the Yard – a young officer this time – because when he looked in the mirror, a rather tired mess stared back at him.

He felt almost hung-over, his stomach revolting at the mere thought of food. When he arrived at the Yard, he downed a coffee just to get his circulation going.

Something had sucked the life force out of him, and if his ex-wife hadn’t left months ago, it would have been clear what it was. And no, he couldn’t even have a bit of simple fun. Instead, he got all worked up because of manipulative puppeteer Mycroft Holmes, who couldn’t even refrain from messing with other people’s lives in his free time.

Greg went through the evidence that had been found in Kersey’s house. The bugger hadn’t been so surprised after all, a lot of stuff had been burned in the fireplace and Greg wondered if there was an informant somewhere among the police force that had tipped him off.

One of the pieces of paper in the little plastic bags caught his attention. There was a golden line at one side and Greg suspected that it had been some kind of frame around the text. Of the letters, just a small ‘y’ could be seen. From the way it was placed, it could have been Kersey’s name and going by the gold embossed around it, there was a chance of it being some kind of invitation or thank-you note.

The file said that forensics had at least found something about the quality of the paper, but they couldn’t trace its origin. Only the fact that it cost twenty pounds – per sheet! – could be determined.

Greg snorted. Twenty pounds per sheet. That sounded like something Mycroft would buy.

Burying the painful memory that came to the surface somewhere deep down again, he packed the bags into their box and left the evidence room. For the rest of the day he’d work off some files he had ignored for some time, and as he couldn’t even go out for a beer because of the surveillance, he could make it a late shift while he was at it.  

Tuesday didn’t bring anything new either, just the confirmation that Kersey hadn’t yet talked and didn’t intend on doing so in the near future, so they could forget about him, too. Instead, his office was invaded by a Holmes, but just the sight of Sherlock made Greg’s hands ball into fists.

If John hadn’t dragged his flatmate out mid-rant, Greg wasn’t sure if he could have controlled himself much longer. When he watched the two get into the elevator, he wondered why the meeting had affected him so much.

There was no reason to be irritated. Sherlock’s voice was too deep. His movements too theatrical. The hair too curly. Nothing about him was Mycroft and yet everything spoke of Holmes.

Unable to contain his annoyance, Greg decided to leave early in lieu of payment and go home. He watched a boring action movie, trying to get his mind off the day, and failed. Sherlock’s accusations that the Yard had ruined the case and the real perpetrators would get away was still too fresh in his mind.

Of course the twat was right. And now that this was equivalent with constant surveillance and a possible assassination looming over him, Greg had to concede that he should bring himself to use all means at his disposal.

It took until the following morning, though, for Greg to choose the number at last.

“Where are you?” he asked the moment the ringback tone stopped.

 _“In my office, I’ll send you the address.”_ Greg hung up and opened the text that arrived almost instantaneously. He could do this. He would go to the address and act like a man for a change, disregarding his clammy fingers or the dread that was already stirring in his gut.

First though, he had to convince Jarvis from the evidence room to let him take the bag containing the piece of paper with him, and then escape the thankfully inattentive shadow that Protection Command had assigned for him that day.

Arriving at the given address, Greg checked his mobile again but the destination he had told the cabbie was right. The inconspicuous building looked as if it belonged to the municipal administration, but when he stepped inside, the metal detector, flanked by no less than six security guards, proved that he was in the right place.

It wasn’t exactly intimidating, just plain corridors with polished tiles and wood panelling on the walls, but something about the building made Greg incredibly nervous. When he arrived on the seventh floor, the strange feeling grew exponentially and Greg stopped walking.

It was silent. For a building where people were supposed to work, it was much too silent. No one was hurrying past him with records, no official shouted in his phone, nothing. Just complete and eerie silence.

Must be some kind of upper class thing, Greg mused. Like the club John had told him about, the place where he had met Mycroft once.

Satisfied by his seemingly logical explanation, Greg scanned the signs on the doors and when he found the right one, he entered without knocking. He was here on police business, damn it, he wasn’t some supplicant.

“Good morning, sir,” a friendly voice greeted him, and Greg tried not to be too surprised by the blonde occupying the desk in what appeared to be the outer office of Mycroft Holmes’ sanctuary.

“He's expecting me,” Greg said and before he could have any second thoughts, he bolted through the door to the right of the secretary.

Letting the door shut, he still had enough of an impetus to advance three steps into the room. At that point, he couldn’t shake the impression that everything, including himself, fell apart in an instant.

Greg stared at the floor, frozen. He heard a rustling that sounded like someone getting up from a chair, shoes clacked on the parquet.

Then there was the silence again and when Greg felt his uneasiness almost choking him, trapping him in a maddening fusion of anger and longing, he knew that it hadn’t been the building’s unusual quietness that had gotten to him in the first place.

He tried to overcome his immobility, but for a time, the only movement was the gritting of his teeth.

 _Shit, Greg,_ he cursed inwardly, _shake his hand, do something!_   

“I’m here because I need your help in the Kersey case,” he said, his eyes still following the herringbone parquet.

“So I had assumed,” came the slightly subdued answer, which finally gave Greg the courage to look up.

Mycroft had emerged from his weekend persona and was the usual picture of closely shaven, dressed to the nines sleekness. Maybe the shadows under his eyes were a bit more pronounced, but Greg assumed that it was due to the light in the office.

Greg swallowed against a lump in his throat. In contrast to the image of perfection in front of him he surely looked like a human wreck. Although he had avoided mirrors for some time, the fact that he spent his nights tossing and turning and hadn’t really eaten in days – living off coffee instead – would surely have left marks.

Pushing aside his self-consciousness, he reached into his jacket and pulled out the bag with the slip of paper.

“We found this among Kersey’s things. Wonder if you know what it is,” Greg mumbled and extended his hand. Hesitating briefly, Mycroft took the bag and spared its content just a glance before taking a deep breath.

“And?” Greg asked and Mycroft pinched his lips, obviously fighting some inner battle before abruptly turning around and marching to his desk. He retrieved an envelope from a letter rack and returned to where Greg was standing.

“You mean something like that?” He presented the envelope to Greg who couldn’t believe what he was seeing, he grabbed it and studied it to be sure – it was the same paper with the same golden line around the edge.

“You’re shitting me, aren’t you?” Greg blurted out and couldn’t help the grin that spread on his face – just like Mycroft wasn’t able to control the twitching corners of his mouth, it seemed.

Greg opened the envelope and took out letter. There it was, the ‘S’ where the ‘Y’ had been on the slip of paper they had found at Kersey’s. And he'd also been right regarding the letter's purpose, it really was an invitation to a reception of a company – one he had never heard anything of, though.

“Shit, that’s –"

“Tonight, yes.”

Greg began to pace. That was his chance to find out something about the people who were after him. “I have to go there.”

“That’s not such a good idea,” Mycroft said and Greg stopped to glower at him.

“Maybe he’s there.”

“Greg,” Mycroft said with an exasperated frown. “You cannot just waltz in there with your men. It doesn’t work that way.”

“Then I pretend I’m you with the help of your invitation.”

Mycroft cocked his head. “Greg –“

“You’re right,” Greg interrupted him with a sigh. “My cover would be blown before I even said my name. You’re like this circle of supervillains, everyone knows eachother.”

Silence stretched awkwardly when Greg searched his mind for another solution, ending up in one impasse after the other. 

“You could accompany me.” Mycroft’s unusually quiet voice sounded through the room and Greg tried to focus on reality again. 

“Like what?”

“My guest. As it says in the invitation.”

“Uh, okay,” Greg managed to say. That was a good idea, wasn’t it? If only the voice in his head screaming ‘danger zone!’ would shut up already.

“But you’d need a new suit.”

“I have a suit,” Greg bristled, but Mycroft raised an eyebrow and shook his head.

“Believe me, not for an event like that.”

“It has to do,” Greg ground out. “I have to find out everything I can about that company, I can’t go shopping for a suit.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Mycroft went to the desk and pressed a button. “Christine, a measuring tape, please.”

Greg shot Mycroft a questioning look, but they were interrupted by a knock and immediately, the secretary entered and pressed something in Mycroft’s hand.

“Thank you very much, Christine,” Mycroft said with a smile and when the door was closed, he let it even grow a little wider.

That seemed to have been the signal for Greg’s mind to switch to complete panic mode. Mycroft wasn’t seriously intending to take his measurements, was he?

“You just have to take off your jacket,” Mycroft said with a smirk. Greg glowered at him to save at least a fraction of his dignity and threw his jacket on one of the armchairs. Idiotic Holmeses and their mind-reading.

“Now if you could please join me at the desk, I have to take some notes in between.” Mycroft placed a sheet of paper and a pen in one corner of the desk and Greg stepped apprehensively nearer, but couldn’t bring himself to fall below a certain safety distance.

 “How do you know how to do that?” Greg asked when he saw Mycroft unroll the tape to an arm’s length in one fluid movement.

 “Oh please,” Mycroft scoffed and circled around Greg to stop behind him.

“Yeah, I suppose you don't have a hundred tailored suits in your wardrobe without learning a thing or two about taking measurements.”

“Indeed,” the voice murmured.

“And what do I have to do?” Greg asked warily, and he didn’t like the sound that followed his question. A chuckle from Mycroft Holmes wasn’t reassuring in the least.

“Now the only thing you have to do is hold still,” the voice purred.


	9. Chapter 9

“Now relax and lift your arms a little,” Mycroft instructed him and Greg clenched his teeth. _Relax a little, my arse_ , he cursed inwardly when two arms wrapped the tape around his chest, the not-quite embrace already accelerating his pulse to such a degree that Greg briefly considered beating a hasty retreat.

The tape became loose and Greg felt a finger on his shoulder, a second on the other followed suit.

“Quite impressive,” Mycroft muttered and took a note. The finger stayed on his shoulder, but the other one wandered to his neck and the same was repeated on the other side.

“Next I'm going to measure your back width,” Mycroft announced.

Greg frowned. “And what's the big probl... wah!” He gave a start, trying to jerk away from the finger that poked at him near his armpit. Immediately, a strong hand grabbed his upper arm.

“Ticklish, Greg?” Mycroft hissed. “Haven't I told you to keep still?”

Greg blinked away the panic that made his eyes bulge. It was impossible. The hand on his arm shouldn't feel as if it could leave scorches on his skin just by touching his shirt. The commanding voice was supposed to appal him, damn it, not make goosebumps march from his neck down to his arms.  

He braved the fingers near his armpits as well as he could and was relieved to feel one of them pressing on his neck afterwards. Mycroft stepped next to him and guided the tape over his shoulder. This was much better, Greg thought, he could deal with fingers touching the back of his hand, and the next step was the tape around his bicep, which also didn't pose too much of a challenge.

After taking some notes, Mycroft swiftly circled him again, but when he stood in front of Greg, facing him, he lifted his arms only to freeze in the middle of his movement.

“I... you have to open another top button,” he said and observed Greg's unbuttoning of his shirt with quiet concentration. Then his arms crossed the rest of the distance and skilful fingers threaded the tape between collar and neck.

A characteristic warmth crept up Greg's throat and this time he was thankful for the poking in his armpits when the fingers searched a new target and stretched the tape across his chest.

He flinched more than was strictly necessary and gave himself a much needed break from the continuous touching. This was not going to end in a good way, definitely not. They had not even covered half of his body and he was already feeling like a nervous wreck. If Mycroft continued like that, oh God, exactly like he was now, clutching the hand and guiding the tape around his wrist while pressing a thumb on his pulse point…

Greg still held up his hand when the fingers had already let go again. It was simply too strenuous processing all this new information to keep track. The places where skin had touched skin and where nerve endings were still vibrating from subtle stimulation seemed to overload his brain, and Greg only realised that Mycroft's arms had wandered around his waist when they lingered in that position for a fraction of a second.

Closing his eyes, Greg inhaled Mycroft's aftershave and briefly enjoyed the unparalleled sensations the scent and the body warmth always triggered in him. He could almost feel the sand between his toes while he was following dream-Mycroft down the beach in southern France.

Then the arms were gone again and the tape around his stomach effectively destroyed every daydream fantasy. Yep, he should definitely work out more, Greg thought, embarrassed.

A pause for notes gave him a chance to calm down a little, but what Mycroft said next immediately had a devastating effect on his blood pressure.

“I just need three more measurements for the jacket.”

Trousers. He had completely forgotten about the fact that a suit was supposed to have trousers, too, and that meant Mycroft’s fingers would go where? Alarmed, Greg’s mind conjured all kinds of possibilities, one more unbearable than the next, and he didn’t realise at first that after pressing one finger against Greg’s neck, the other hand wandered down to the middle of the thigh.

“What…?” Greg tried to control his breathing but that endeavour effectively stifled the rest of the question.

“That’s the front jacket length,” Mycroft explained matter-of-factly. “Now please step out of your shoes.”

The moment he had managed to extract his feet from his shoes, he felt a thumb press against the back of his neck. Greg edited out what was going on behind him and focused on the most important problem again. Three, Mycroft had said, he needed three more for the jacket and that was the second. One was left and then what?

“Greg, really, you have to stand still,” Mycroft chided and Greg became aware of the fact that he had started fidgeting. Fingers now pressed against his neck and the waistband of his pants, and the internal countdown he had been following came to its fatal end.

Not good, so absolutely not good. Greg’s mind got a last break when the tape was guided around his waist, but the direction it would take from then on was clear, and that was not good. Not good at all.

Greg broke out in perspiration and he secretly thanked Mycroft for not starting with the trousers because then he would have had to take the upper measurements of someone drenched in his own sweat.

“I’ll give you a little warning before each of the steps,” Mycroft said. “As you seem to be of a ticklish nature.”

That was good, wasn’t it? Greg could just nod dumbly.

“The tape now has to go around the fullest part of your hips and buttocks,” Mycroft explained and kneeled on one knee.

Greg’s mind was still able to process the fact that he had heard Mycroft utter the word ‘buttocks’ and he was even peripherally aware of him being at eye level with his crotch, but everything was immediately eclipsed by the tape lightly grazing his cock. It didn’t matter that there were two layers of cloth between them, just the slightest touch sent such delicious electrical sparks through his body that he had to grit his teeth to refrain from moaning.

Mycroft paused to take a note and slowly, Greg came to his senses again – which was a definite drawback because that meant becoming aware of his growing erection.

“Now I need the trousers outside leg measurement,” Mycroft announced but Greg’s mind already galloped forwards to the next logical step. Outside leg was good, inside leg was definitely very, very problematic.

Desperately trying to will down the stubborn hardness, Greg focused on the bookshelf so that he at least didn’t have to see Mycroft shifting to kneel in front of him again.

“I’ll take the –"

“Bugger, I know,” Greg rasped. “Get on with it already.”

He went on staring at the impressive shelf opposite him, mentally counting the books while trying to block the feeling of the hand that only slightly grazed his balls.

There was no way in hell that Mycroft hadn’t figured out what was going on, Greg thought and was unable to suppress his panic any more. That had to be the most embarrassing and by far most humiliating moment of his entire life. There was just one blow missing – Mycroft’s inevitable comment on Greg’s obvious predicament.

Clinging to the hope that he had survived the worst part, Greg nearly bolted when he heard Mycroft’s next words. 

“Now there’s just the crotch and two measurements of the legs. Then we’re done.”

As if he had known about Greg’s sudden urge to flee, Mycroft grabbed his belt and held on to it just enough to make an instinctive reaction impossible.

Greg closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. From where the hand was clutching his waistband, he felt the tape being guided along his cock and slightly rubbing along his testicles before it wandered back to the top of his trousers' waistband again.

“This shouldn’t be too tight anyway,” Mycroft growled and Greg’s breath hitched.

The tape disappeared and he heard scribbling. Tentatively, Greg opened his eyes to peek at his groin. The bulge there was clearly discernible and although Mycroft was on eye level with it, he busied himself with the tape around Greg’s thigh and knee and didn’t pay any attention to it.

A last note and then, seemingly in thought, Mycroft stood up and went to his desk.

“I’ll have it sent to you by seven, I’ll pick you up at eight,” he said and added something on the sheet before he grabbed the telephone receiver. “Have a nice day.”

Greg forced himself to overcome his astonishment by stepping into his shoes, and then quickly left the office. By the way he was dismissed, a goodbye didn’t seem necessary anyway, and so he didn’t even turn towards the secretary before he escaped to the hallway.

Now he was glad the corridors were so deserted, it gave him enough time to concentrate on ice cubes or the questions in his last promotion exam, anything to get rid of the hard-on he was still sporting.

In the lift, he glanced down on himself and was glad to find everything in order again. There was no mirror in the rather spacious cage and Greg breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t have to look himself in the eye while he was trying to wrap his mind around the fact that a couple of minutes ago, he had experienced the most bewildering and arousing event of his entire life.

That alone could be a great step into a very promising future, if it wasn’t for Mycroft Holmes’ involvement. There was no way Greg would walk down that path again, so he should immediately forget about the whole thing.

When he returned to the Yard, his watchdog seemed surprised to see him, he obviously hadn’t realised that his target had left the Yard.

 _Idiot_ , Greg thought, he should have a word or two with Miller about the men in that department.

Without delay, Greg went to work but as time flew by and the clock approached six pm faster than he had anticipated, he gave up his search for anything useful about the company and prepared to go home.

Scanning the file for a last time, he couldn’t believe how extremely inconspicuous the firm was. Too inconspicuous. They were active in import and export but never had any problems, not even with customs, and additionally they held numerous shares in a lot of other companies. The only slightly strange thing was that they belonged to a group allegedly situated in Jersey and Greg suspected that in Jersey, this group was registered on the Cayman Islands or somewhere else.

But that alone didn’t make them suspicious, half of London’s companies had similar financial involvements and tried to save taxes in exactly the same way.

Greg sighed. A bit more regulation in the financial sector really couldn’t hurt. Maybe he should talk about that with Mycroft in the evening. That or the fact that some unintentional touching had made him hard.

He grabbed his jacket and nodded to his minder that they should leave now. Going by the way the guy scrambled to his feet, Greg became aware of the fact that there still had to be a rather dark look on his face, but he couldn’t think of anything to get rid of it.

Instead, he stared at yet another metal plating of a lift and took a deep breath. Whatever they were going to talk about that evening, he wouldn’t give Mycroft the satisfaction of admitting the effect he was still having on him – on top of giving a blatant display of it in the form of a bulge in his trousers, that is.

They would spend the evening trying to solve a case, that was it, Greg decided, and when he arrived at his flat, he set out to prepare for the mission the best he could. Although he wasn’t very hungry, he decided to eat something, because an undercover operation with a growling stomach was not according to the police textbook, or common sense for that matter.

At a quarter to seven, the suit still hadn’t arrived, so Greg quickly shed his clothes and was about to get in the shower when the doorbell rang. Throwing on a dressing gown, he opened the door to meet a nervous young bloke who directly extended his arm to present him a large black bag.

“Good evening, Sir, I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said with a smile and Greg took the coat hanger with the bag. He stepped inside and hung it on the rack, but when he peeked at the staircase again, the guy was already gone.

Damn, what was it with the delivery boys in Mycroft’s universe? Greg wondered. They seemed to have a talent of vaporising on the spot.

Curious, he opened the zip and what appeared was just as black as the bag. Only the white shirt stood out and Greg gave a laugh. Trust Mycroft to doubt that he at least had a shirt for whatever ultimately posh event this was. Well, maybe there existed some secret collar form and length that indicated where it had been bought – who knew.

Pushing back the bag to reveal the newest addition to his wardrobe, Greg couldn’t help being impressed. Experimentally, he rubbed the cloth between his fingers and it produced a somewhat unknown but surprisingly nice feel which was definitely different from what he had been wearing till then.

The trousers were even better, without the lining, the cloth was of an even softer texture. Greg dropped the dressing gown on the floor and pulled the trousers from the hanger. He should try them on, because if they didn't fit, he would have to hurry and iron his own black suit – storing it somewhere at the back of his wardrobe had surely left some creases.

 _Oh yes,_ Greg mused, that was clearly different from what he was accustomed to. The new trousers could be worn without any underwear at all because the glorious feeling of the silky but firm cloth around his crotch excelled everything. A glance in the mirror proved that his suffering in the morning had paid off – they really were a perfect fit.

Greg took the jacket off the hanger and slipped into it. Of course he wouldn't encounter the ordinary feel of polyester lining, but what was it instead? Greg couldn't say it, just that it was softer to the touch than the outside but not too much, cooling the skin a little instead of covering it in a plastic bag.

He looked in the mirror again and his mouth quirked. That was one hell of a suit. Although the fact that he had no shirt on provided him the discreet charm of a pimp from the seventies, the suit made him the most cultured pimp of all times.

Damn, the thing fit like a glove. It gave him space to move but it accentuated all the right places, not just hinting but confirming that indeed, the line from his shoulder to his waist still had some of the V-shape he had given up for lost.

How had Mycroft done that? It felt as if he had meticulously catalogued his body to understand its proportions down to the last detail and then make the cloth envelope it like a completely natural second shell.

Greg frowned. There was no doubt that Mycroft was a perfectionist – he was a Holmes. Of course he could find exactly the right spot for the measuring tape. Those hands had been so sure of what they were doing, there was barely any hesitation in their movement.

When he closed his eyes, he could still feel those hands. Wandering around his wrist, guiding the tape along his neck, fingers grazing his crotch – just a hint of touching had been enough and his arousal had skyrocketed.

Greg blinked and snatched his hand away. It had automatically started to rub over his fly and there was no wonder he could remember his arousal so well as he was staring at it again. Quickly, he stepped out of the trousers and took of the jacket to proceed with what he had intended to do before he was disturbed.

To his great astonishment, he even managed to ignore his erection for a while. He washed his hair and lathered himself down, but the moment his soapy hand encircled the hardness that just wouldn’t wane, it felt as if his brain switched to automatic.

He couldn’t have stopped, even if he had wanted to. The water washed off the soap and the frantic movement produced friction bordering pain, but it didn’t help.

All he could think about was the light touch of those purposeful fingers and how they grazed his balls. What if there hadn’t been any cloth between them and his body? Those knowing fingers would have found every patch of skin that was designed to make his brain explode, they would have caressed his balls, wandered upwards to pump his cock. Mycroft kneeling, observing, following the path of the hand with his tongue…

“Shit!” Greg shouted and supported himself on the tiles when his orgasm snatched away his last ounce of control.

The incredible pull that made everything contract, giving the impression that his balls and cock would burst any moment, was discharged and made his body and mind go down in a flash of bliss.

 _Bloody hell_ , he cursed, still pumping out the seemingly endless spurts. That didn't bode too well for the evening.

 


	10. Chapter 10

Greg hectically fiddled with the bow-tie, but it stayed as crooked as it had been for the last ten minutes. Why a fucking bow-tie? Couldn’t the top snobs wear normal ties, like everyone else? Of course not.

He glanced at his watch and decided to give up his attempts at tying the erratic satin into something reasonable. It was already a minute to eight and Mycroft was sure to be punctual.

Grabbing his keys and forgoing his coat, he left his flat and stomped down the staircase. Outside, the warm spring air and the expected black limousine waited for him and Greg marched on without missing a beat. So he was entering one lion’s den to drive to another, what was the big deal?

The chauffeur walked around the car to open the door and Greg quickly got inside. He could act like Sherlock for once. This was all for The Work and he should be thankful that Mycroft took on the risk of smuggling him in there tonight. Considering it, the risk had to be extremely high, what if they…

“Good evening, Greg,” the well-known voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Mycroft.”

Greg imitated the friendly smile that was directed at him, but when Mycroft’s eyes strayed to Greg’s collar, an immediate frown formed on his forehead.

“Shit, I know,” Greg ground out. “But I couldn’t do it, okay? I even watched an internet tutorial from what looked like a car salesman posing as James Bond, but it still didn’t work.”

Mycroft gave a laugh. ”Let me,” he said, leaning over.

Maybe if he stopped breathing? If he confronted his senses with as little _Mycroft_ as possible? But when the man he wanted to avoid busied himself with the bow-tie, there was nowhere else for Greg to look but directly into his face. Trying to reduce his breathing to a minimum so that the damn aftershave wouldn’t affect him so much, he stared like a dear caught in headlights.

The typically quirked eyebrow, a hint of a sneer, eyes concentrated on the task at hand, focused but not in a piercing way. They were rather… tender.

They even showed a trace of laughter lines before they were gone again and Mycroft leaned back in his seat.

Greg lightly tugged at the bow-tie. “Feels good,” he remarked.

“Looks good as well, believe me.”

There was that typical hint at an ambiguous subtext in his voice, unsettling Greg in the same way since the first time he'd heard it. Maybe he should explain to Mycroft that such innuendos weren’t part of a normal friendship.

Mentally shaking his head at his own overreaction, Greg tried to re-evaluate what Mycroft had said. Of course the bow-tie looked good, Mycroft had tied it. He wasn’t complimenting him or anything like that, he was just stating the obvious.

“What I wanted to tell you,” Mycroft started hesitantly and Greg didn’t like the tone of his voice, “about the weekend… I thought –"

“No, it’s okay,” Greg interrupted him. He was not going to talk about the weekend. Not after the fresh humiliation of a couple of hours ago.

“But you –"

“No, seriously,” Greg maintained. “I mean it, it’s okay.”

“What…?” At a loss for words, Mycroft’s face showed something that might have been bewilderment on anyone else, but Greg doubted that such a category existed in the Holmes-verse.

“You see, although we’ve come to a certain understanding, there are a couple of things that cannot be avoided,” Greg explained.

“Well, if you say so…”

“That’s what we are, isn’t it?” Greg hoped that he didn’t have to clarify. Mycroft was a Holmes, he’d understand. The mind reading was part of being a manipulative bastard, the one character trait that pervaded Mycroft’s whole existence. Mycroft wouldn’t be able to let go of it like Greg could never stop being a policeman. Better to accept the two constants now and move on.

“And what happened, at the end, when you left?” Mycroft asked cautiously.

“It’s just a matter of… getting to know each other’s limits, it was just a misunderstanding, I guess.” What a great description of the shortest non-existant affair of his entire life, Greg thought bitterly, but Mycroft’s face suddenly became the picture of pronounced interest.

“And how do you suggest we proceed from now on?”

Greg shrugged. “What we did before. Try out how far we can go. Get to know each other.”

The first thought that coursed through Greg’s mind was that next time, he would ask Mycroft to hand over one of the bad guys on a silver platter. Or demand a private line to the prime minister.

Mycroft appeared to be extraordinarily pleased and Greg tried to ignore the gnawing dread the reaction produced in him. They had been talking about the same thing, hadn’t they? If they had – and Greg intently hoped so – what kind of okay had he given Mycroft for his mind games?

Before he had any chance to clarify, the car stopped and they got out, ending up in front of another one of the plain looking houses Greg had seen so many of in the preceding week. When they stepped through the entrance, a rather bulky porter loomed in the doorway and accepted Mycroft’s invitation unblinkingly.

Inside, the house was the complete opposite of its outer appearance and the crystal chandelier in the foyer almost blinded Greg. The noises his leather soles had made on the tiles were swallowed by the plush red carpet and when his eyes had become accustomed to the light, he warily scanned his surroundings.

“I’m starting to learn how it works,” Greg said under his breath.

“How exactly?” Mycroft asked and nodded at a grey-haired man passing them.

“The inconspicuous houses and all that. It doesn’t matter if you’re on one side or on the other, you cleverly hide what you’ve got, restricting entrance for the common folk and distract them with a couple of newly rich or aristocrats they can envy and read about.”

Mycroft grinned and led them towards a marble staircase.

“Well observed.”

They climbed up the stairs and quiet music could already be heard at the end of the hallway, accompanied by the chatter of numerous people.

“And the chosen few meet at places like this to check each other out. But what for?” Greg asked and Mycroft reduced their speed to keep them at a distance from the other people before he answered.

“To simply show them that we’re still there. We help them to maintain their respectable façade, but at the same time they should never forget about us and what we’re prepared to do. It’s all part of the game.”

“That’s… completely insane.” Greg shook his head and tried to keep up with Mycroft who made a little detour to one of the motionless waiters flanking the doors.

“No,” Mycroft said curtly and took two glasses from the tablet. “That’s called civilisation. Champagne?”

Clutching the glass nervously, Greg followed Mycroft around the loosely assembled groups and tried to sneak a peek at one or two guests, not daring to be too obvious about it. Mycroft steered them to the steps leading up to the small stage where a string quintet was playing.

Greg immediately realised that it was the perfect place. They could watch everyone from there, all the doors were in sight and the music drowned their voices so that no one could overhear them. Conspiratorially, Greg turned his head towards Mycroft.

“How do we find out who we need among all those people?” he asked, the soft music making it necessary to approach Mycroft a bit too much for Greg’s liking.

“We wait until someone sneaks away too inconspicuously,” Mycroft said and sipped his champagne.

“And what are we going to do till then?”

“We drink another glass, look at the pictures of modern art on the wall and I tell you how handsome you look,” Mycroft said without the bat of an eyelid. Instead, he snaked his arm around Greg, prompting him to scan the room with panic in his eyes.

“What are you doing? I’m not _that_ kind of guest,“ he hissed.

“You aren’t?” Mycroft growled. “That’s not what the invitation said.”

“They surely didn’t think of me when they wrote that you could bring company.” Desperately, Greg thought of a way to escape Mycroft’s embrace, but he doubted that anything he did would go unnoticed by the other guests.

“They thought of female company you mean?” Mycroft asked, amusement in his voice. “Gregory, such bourgeois trivialities in circles like these? Now, pay close attention to the people.”

The breath Greg recognised from the back of his neck now tickled him behind his ear, but it was replaced by soft lips that left just the slightest peck before they disappeared again.

Alarmed, Greg scanned the room. No one had paid any attention to Mycroft’s actions. No one but Greg’s cock.

“Yeah, I get it…” he breathed and stared at the floor. The guests were definitely not his problem, but that didn’t make it any easier.

“They pretend that they didn’t see,” Mycroft whispered, “but in reality everyone noticed us. Some of them still foster their old prejudices and their minds conjured one or two profanities. Others don’t care, for them it was just a show of affection. Yet there’s the majority of those present in the room, and they had just one thought…” The voice trailed off.

“What?” Greg asked, irritated.

“They were utterly jealous of me.”

It felt as if he had been staring at different kinds of wooden flooring over the past weeks. Annoyed, Greg clenched his teeth and tried to avoid snapping the champagne glass’ stem in half. Why the fuck was Mycroft doing this to him?

“The moment you entered, everyone was aware of the fact that you have no idea you’re the most singularly attractive man in this whole room,” Mycroft purred. “They hoped that maybe in my aloof ways, I hadn’t realised that already. Those idiots. Of course I had.”

A nose was briefly buried in his hair and Greg could hear Mycroft inhaling.

“As if I wouldn't know that it's impossible to resist you,” his voice whispered.

Greg froze and forced himself to keep breathing. What in God’s name was Mycroft doing? Was he following some plan he hadn’t told him about? Some elaborate scheme?

Again, the champagne glass was close to breaking when the answer to the question popped up in Greg’s mind at last. Mycroft was doing this because he could. He was simply testing the limits.

 _That son of a bitch_ , Greg thought and raised his head to gulp down the rest of the champagne. Why couldn’t these fat cats serve a decent beer for a change? Or whisky? He really needed something stronger now, otherwise the evening would not only be a complete failure with regard to the case but he’d also fall victim to one of Mycroft’s games once more.

“Erm, ah, thanks I guess.” Greg cleared his throat. “But that reduces my chances of not having my cover blown to zero, doesn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t say so.” Mycroft’s voice really didn’t carry any hint at worry. “One’s company is solely judged by their outer appearance. No one asks who the beauty at your side is. Those are the rules.”

“Yeah, great, so I’m what? Some kind of accessory?”

“That’s absolutely correct,” Mycroft chuckled. “But everything else would’ve been a disaster for our endeavour, you know that as well as I do. And…” Greg felt the telltale puff of breath against his ear again before the whispering voice followed it. “It’s enough that we both are aware of the fact that this isn’t the case.”

“Okay, that’s… reassuring,” Greg said, staunchly trying to avoid being lured down the path he wasn’t prepared to walk again. “Now could we please change the topic? How was your… afternoon? Anything interesting?”

“Oh, small talk?” Mycroft asked and Greg could feel silent laughter reverberating in the body he was pressed against. “Well then, my afternoon was particularly inspiring, believe me.”

“It was?” Greg risked a peek up at him. No, the Cheshire cat grin was not what he had anticipated and he immediately regretted his question.

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “While I was trying to cover up a rather delicate affair of a well-known official, I couldn’t help being distracted to a certain degree. They’re very insignificant, the frailties of the high and mighty, in comparison to what was so vividly playing in my mind.”

Mycroft shifted a bit and pulled Greg nearer until he had managed to find a position comfortable enough to directly whisper in Greg’s ear.

“I just couldn’t stop imagining what I would’ve liked to do whilst taking your measurements.”

Greg made an attempt to wrench free and found that he was trapped. At least he had discovered why Mycroft had moved nearer.

“Your shirt would have had to go first. It was such a nuisance to have it block my access to your body. How easy it would have been to unbutton it and kiss your neck where in reality just the tape was allowed to go.”

A waiter passed them and Greg was thankful to get rid of his glass.

“Just the slightest push of my hands and that shirt would have fallen to the floor, making it possible for me to explore all the places I desired. How much chest hair was there? How would a nipple react to a brush of my fingers or to my teeth grazing it? Was there a trail of hair that I could follow down your stomach?” Mycroft growled and Greg frantically checked all the susceptible areas of his body.

A stirring in his groin had not led to visible results – yet! His hands were trembling, breathing was still possible, and his eyes must have a rather crazed look – as if he was rooted to the spot by an incredibly arousing spider crawling up his back.

“What a difference it would have made not only to touch but to taste, travelling with my tongue to the ultimate goal, the gift the wimp in the alley got to sample instead of me.”

Greg held his breath. He needed to say something, break free from the warmth and the embrace, put a distance between himself and the cajoling tone of that voice.

“Stop,” was all he could say and the word was uttered so quietly that Greg doubted Mycroft had heard it among the strings in the background.

“What did you say? Greg?” Suddenly the teasing undertone was completely gone and relieved, Greg managed some shallow breathing.

“Please stop,” he said, his voice somewhat stronger than before. “I can't... damn, you know what that does to me, so stop it already, okay?”

“Greg, I... wait… I’m afraid we have to go. Follow me.”

Like Greg had hoped, the arm disappeared, but it left a strangely empty feeling. Mycroft tugged at Greg's sleeve to indicate that he should come with him and although it took quite some effort to switch from arousal to police work, Greg had managed to find his focus again when they reached the lift.

“They went to the cellar. Let's take the stairs,” Mycroft announced and opened the door he was facing. As quietly as possible, they went down the staircase and when they arrived at the cellar door, Greg opened it a crack and had a look. The dark corridor was empty, so after they stole into it, they sneaked along the wall to follow the faint voices somewhere in a distance.

“That's Russian, isn't it?” Greg whispered.

“It appears so, yes,” Mycroft answered and then Greg felt a hand on his arm. “Someone's coming.”

Simultaneously, they turned to the right and squeezed behind a stack of chairs.

“When someone's passing, they'll most likely see us,” Greg hissed but was cut off by a hand pressing on his mouth. Two men walked past their corner, talking animatedly in Russian, and when they were out of earshot, the hand silencing him disappeared again.

“You're right, if they return, they might see us as the basement window above us provides too much light. Additionally, there might be others on their way,” Mycroft mumbled, causing the adrenalin level in Greg's blood to go through the roof.

“Shit, we're trapped,” Greg cursed and immediately felt the hand again which had saved him before. Gently, it cradled his face and turned Greg’s head in Mycroft’s direction.

“Do you still trust me?” Mycroft asked.

“What has that –?

“Do you trust me? That's all I need to hear,” Mycroft insisted and Greg felt that warm hand move a little, almost hinting at a caress.

Greg sighed. “Yes, I do.”

Had Mycroft approached? Was he inclining his head? What... was he… was he going to kiss him?

Bewildered, Greg's fuzzy mind was still trying to make sense of what was going on, when there were steps in the corridor again. Mycroft withdrew his hand and listened.

“You have to leave after exactly five minutes. You said you trust me, so do what I say: sneak down the corridor to the staircase, go up to the second floor, take the lift to the ground floor again, march straight to the front door and outside.”

Mycroft stood up and automatically, Greg pressed the light on his watch. When he looked up again, Mycroft was gone.

His heart beating rapidly, Greg tried to calm down and concentrate. Unlike before, it was almost disturbingly quiet and after the five minutes that felt like an eternity, Greg was thankful to escape the silence. He went upstairs and back down in the lift, walked to the main entrance as if he had no care in the world, nodded to the porter, stepped outside and quickly crossed to the road to slink into the shadows of a garage entrance.

Now Mycroft would appear any minute, Greg was sure of that. He would saunter out of the house and get into the limousine, stopping some yards down the road to open the door and wait for Greg to leave his hiding place and join him. Because that was how it was supposed to work in Mycroft's world, wasn’t it?

Finally, after an hour of waiting and staring, Greg realised that he had been terribly wrong.


	11. Chapter 11

The back light of his mobile switched off again and automatically, Greg pressed the button to turn it back on. He knew that it wouldn't help, there wouldn't be an icon telling him to open his inbox, no 'one new message'. It would have buzzed first. He knew that. He had checked it wasn't on silent.

There was still no message. Exactly like during the night, when he had set an alarm to wake him up every hour should the message tone not do the job, but hadn't needed it because he had been awake anyway.

So he could simply leave it dark, because he wouldn't use it for anything else but police business. Phoning and texting Mycroft was out of the question – what if he compromised him when someone saw that he was contacted by the police?

He could go to a phone box and try it from there. Maybe the other side couldn't tap into the CCTV network.

Greg compressed his lips and switched on the display again. Who was he kidding? Those people could do everything. They sent an assassin to wait for him in his fucking kitchen, damn it!

“Detective Inspector?”

Sally Donovan was looming in the door and Greg tried to direct his thoughts to his work but felt his concentration waning. _I can't break down in the Yard, for God's sake,_ he commanded himself.

“We’ve got a murder,” she said non-committally and Greg felt his blood run cold.

“Who? I mean, where?” he asked, trying to sound composed.

“They found the body in a house in Westminster.”

She was waiting for a reply, but Greg got the impression that he had lost control of his body. Completely immobilised, he felt a brutal pressure on his chest, making breathing almost impossible.

“But even the officers who were there to secure the house said that it was the husband who killed her,” Sally Donovan said and shrugged. “You coming?”

Greg filled his lungs with air and managed a forced smile.

“We'll meet in the car park.”

He took his gun and his jacket and signalled his bodyguard that he wasn’t needed at a crime scene. On his way downstairs, Greg felt his thoughts stray again and he decided that it would be advisable to let Donovan drive. As expected, she was extremely pleased to get the keys.

“Waiting for something important?” she asked when they pulled out of the car park; Greg had already managed to check his phone three times during their short ride.

“Yes... no,” Greg answered absent-mindedly, pocketing his phone. “It's nothing, it'll be straightened out somehow, I hope.”

And if it wouldn't? Even driving to Westminster was giving him the urge to get out of the car, take a cab that mile further south and find out if Mycroft was at home. God, he’d jump out of the police car and run if there was any chance of finding Mycroft unhurt.

Greg felt for his mobile in his jacket. It would vibrate if there was a message, so he hadn’t missed anything. Just about to get it out regardless, he was catapulted forward when the car stopped abruptly.

“Bollocks, the idiots blocked the whole road,” Sally Donovan swore and Greg focused on the street. The space that had been closed off around the crime scene was considerable, but a beat officer lifted the tape for them to drive through.

Forensics were already securing something on the pavement and Sally Donovan purposefully marched into the house, Greg following her. He’d keep a low profile this time, otherwise he’d botch things up for sure.

Fortunately, the case really was as easy as their colleagues had said and to Greg’s relief, a lot of irrefutable evidence pointed to the husband. Someone had opened the weapon cabinet secured by a six number combination lock, taken out a rifle and shot the woman who had been clearly surprised.

There were no traces of a break-in, but bloody footprints led to the curb where a car could have been parked. The husband had even locked the door from the outside. Pure habit, Greg guessed.

He watched Sally Donovan talk insistently to one of the guys from forensics, but before Greg could overcome his reluctance to get involved in the case, his phone rang.

It vibrated against his chest, the simple ring tone on the loudest volume piercing through the clear afternoon, and though nearly all his senses registered it, Greg couldn't move.

Everything narrowed down to the sound announcing a possible end to his worries. And if it wasn't Mycroft? If it was a hospital? The morgue?

“Detective Inspector? I think your phone is ringing,” one of the men in the white suits said to him in passing.

Instinctively, Greg reached inside his jacket and fumbled for the mobile, almost letting it drop from the trembling of his hands.

“Who is it?” Sally asked, and Greg finally managed to look at the display.

“The Yard.”

What they had told him? Greg couldn't really say, but he remembered that it was about the husband's arrest. He also recalled Sally Donovan's delighted face when he asked her to return to the Yard and question the man.

Then, very slowly, Greg came back to his mind again when a voice announced that they had arrived at their destination. A cabbie. Money. He had to give the man money and get out of the car and into the building where his subconscious had steered him to. There he hoped to find the only person who could end the unbearable uncertainty that was starting to cost him his sanity.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Christine greeted him, a professional or warm smile on her face – Greg couldn’t tell the difference. “How can I help you? I’m sorry to inform you that Mr Holmes isn’t in his office.”

Greg's heart sank. “Yes, that… well, has he been here today?” he stuttered. Would she even tell him the truth?

“No, he hasn’t. That isn’t unusual, though, it has happened before. Mr Holmes has many obligations, as you know.”

“Yes, yes, I… and he hasn’t phoned?” Greg tried again, but the secretary just shook her head.

“Well, uh, sorry to have disturbed you. I’ll… bye.”

Quickly, Greg turned around and left the room. That Mycroft hadn’t shown up there or even phoned didn’t mean anything, Greg told himself. Something top secret had occurred and he couldn’t contact anyone, that was it. He’d return eventually.

He hailed another cab, determined to go back to the Yard. Mycroft was alright. There was no need to fret.

“Sir? Do you want to get in?” The cabbie’s voice.

“Yes, I...” Greg said and opened the door, hesitating.

“Where can I take you?”

Greg briefly squeezed his eyes shut. “Westminster,” he said, sat down and closed the door.

One last straw. He would make sure that there wasn’t anything suspicious going on at the house, nothing else. It didn't matter that each mile they came nearer to it, dread was turning his insides to lead weights. He'd brave this, accept the fact that Mycroft wasn't there and return to the Yard at last.

Trying not to look at the house when he arrived in front of it, he paid the cabbie and watched the car drive away. Why hadn't he asked the man to stay? He couldn't sit in front of the house and wait for Mycroft if no one answered the door, could he?

Out of the corner of his eyes, he couldn’t see any light in the windows but it was still afternoon, so that didn't mean anything. Fixing his gaze on the brass doorbell instead, he saw his finger advance in slow motion and push down on it. The melodious chime inside the house sounded for so long that Greg almost missed the quiet noise of the door.

“I hoped you’d come,” _that voice_ said and the short moment Greg was rooted to the spot ended when the amused grin on Mycroft's face effectively blanked out Greg's mind.

“You fucker!” he shouted and stormed through the door, pushing Mycroft backwards until he bumped into the railing of the staircase. “I thought you were dead!”

“Well, as you can see –"

“Of course I can see!” Greg interjected and started pacing the hallway in a futile attempt to reduce his anger. This wasn’t happening. He had spent the whole night and a good part of the day worrying himself sick and Mycroft was doing what? Taking some time off?

Disbelievingly, he watched him close the door and have the audacity to walk down the hallway with that self-assured mien that blew the last fuse in Greg’s brain. Automatically, he grabbed Mycroft's collar.

“I can assure you that –" Mycroft started but the rest of the sentence dissipated with the impact on the wall, forcing the air out of his lungs effectively.

“I thought you were dead,” Greg ground out and clutched his collar harder. When it constricted around his throat, Mycroft lost a bit of his arrogance and offered a small smile.

“Maybe I should have –"

“You should’ve what? Texted me? That would’ve been a start. What about phoning? Forgot all about that? Shit, I thought you…”

He needed to wipe the last trace of that look off Mycroft’s face once and for all, throttle him for making him suffer like that, for letting him believe that no one would ever see him again… God, if he’d never…

As quickly as his lips had landed on Mycroft's mouth they retreated again, but Greg was still feeling the lingering warmth when panic set in.

“I’m sorry, I…” he whispered, feeling Mycroft breathing heavily against the elbows pushing him into the wall. Greg reduced his hold on Mycroft's collar and was about to step backwards, when the panic that coursed through him was suddenly mirrored in Mycroft’s face.

The pressure on his neck set in so unexpectedly and was so pronounced that the next encounter with Mycroft’s mouth came as a painful clash. This time, Greg couldn’t retreat. The hands were clutching him with such incredible force, it was as if they wanted to imprint the soft lips on his.

Greg’s fingers understood before his lips could react, letting go of Mycroft's collar, wandering down his chest and around his waist to help their counterparts around Greg’s neck overcome the remaining inches that separated their bodies.

The warmth, the mouth… so near, so… Greg closed his eyes, willing his mind to catch up with the events of the past few minutes, but that damnable smell and the lips opening just the tiniest bit reset everything to zero, leaving room for only one thought.

 _More_. No matter how little free movement the persistent hands allowed, Greg’s lips started an agonisingly slow dance on Mycroft’s, and when the pressure on his neck refused to abate – as if Mycroft was afraid that the other man would vanish any second – Greg chose the most natural solution.

When he opened his mouth, he felt the immediate response, pliable lips following his example and inviting him in, letting his tongue snake into that hot cavern. The moment their tongues met, Mycroft seemed to believe what was going on as well and the fierce grip on Greg’s neck became a tentative caress.

'Too much material' Greg’s hands signalled to him, groping everything they could reach but being far from being satisfied, feeling along Mycroft's waist and back with just a faint idea of what was underneath his shirt.

Greg awkwardly stripped his jacket to rid himself of at least some superfluous clothing. Unable to break the kiss, he fumbled with the buttons of Mycroft’s shirt, but it didn’t matter how many he undid, there were always more. What about his own shirt? Only peripherally Greg realised that fingers just as hectic as his own were occupied with that task, tugging on the verge of tearing.

“Damn, I need, I…” Impatiently, Greg ripped off the last button and pressed Mycroft against the wall, trying to get as much hot skin as possible, as close as possible and touch every inch in reach.

He wasn’t alone in his desires, thank God, finally he could feel an answering hardness grinding against him with too little friction.

“Oh fuck, yes.” Greg needed an arm to support himself on the wall when a firm hand started to rub over the bulge in his trousers with almost ruthless abandon, melting down all the anger and the relief and the arousal to a blistering heatwave that scorched what was left of Greg’s mind.

Barely able to stand upright anymore, let alone manage to open Mycroft’s fly, Greg put up no resistance when Mycroft batted away his hand and pulled him aside to shove him up against a door. Everything was simply too much to allow a coherent thought.

That hand, the mouth stealing his breath, to be able to touch where ever he wanted…

“Gregory,” Mycroft whispered, making inhaling possible for a bittersweet fraction of a second before the lips sealed off Greg’s mouth again in an almost brutal kiss.

Yielding under the pressure, Greg couldn’t feel the wood against his back nor Mycroft’s weight, everything within him concentrated solely on the hand on his trousers and the dexterous fingers opening his fly, his exposed cock, a hand encircling it, stroking it...

“Shit, that’s too…” Greg panted and made a final effort to reach Mycroft’s trousers. “I… I want to…”

He was silenced again, but parallel to the battle with the demanding tongue, Greg realised that he was supported in his feeble attempts at conquering Mycroft's fly. Finally, he was able to get hold of Mycroft's cock and he registered that from then on, Mycroft's movements became slightly more uncoordinated.

Greg heard a growl and was rendered almost immobile, too brutal was the onslaught from the body grinding against him and the teeth nipping and biting their way along his lower lip.

“Let me,” the voice purred and an insisting hand peeled off his fingers to encircle both cocks expertly.

“Oh shit,” Greg cursed and held on to Mycroft. The pace was too quick, the friction too delicious, the hardness of Mycroft’s cock and the firm hand together too bloody perfect to resist or put a check on the arousal catapulting him towards the inexorable end.  

"Gregory," Mycroft's rich baritone rumbled against the overheated skin of his neck, shuddering with desperate intakes of breath. "Come for me."

Greg's muscles seized up at the words as if in conditioned response. An inferno raged through the pit of his stomach and radiated outwards like the spread of a petrol fuelled blaze, obliterating every one of his brain cells in its wake. The force of the blow had him doubled over, his head mashed violently up against Mycroft's slender shoulder as his body convulsed, weeks of frustration and tension flooding from him in long, hot spurts.

"Fuck," he managed to rasp out, as the aftershocks of pleasure shook his helpless limbs. Mycroft's hand maintained its punishing pace, and as Greg's heavily hooded eyes met his, pupils blown up with lust, he came to a stuttering finish with a ground shaking groan.

No longer able to support Greg’s weight Mycroft clung to him in return until Greg’s legs gave way and they slid down the door, collapsing on the floor in a heap of rumpled shirts and trousers. Exhausted, Greg couldn’t help huffing out a laugh.

“Have I told you how relieved I am to see you?”

Mycroft chuckled. “Not in those words, no.”

Allowing his mind to bask in the contentment of the moment, Greg closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He was sitting in Mycroft Holmes' hallway, panting, semen staining his trousers, and he couldn’t remember a time in his life when he'd been happier. If someone had told him this two weeks ago…

He turned his head and looked at Mycroft, a picture of ruffled hair and flushed face, topped off with a formerly inconceivable goofy grin.

“Sad that we didn’t find out anything at the party,” Greg said. “That would’ve been the icing on the cake.”

“Who said we didn’t?” Mycroft answered, much too self-confident for Greg’s liking.

“They were speaking Russian, remember?” Instead of answering, Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

“You understood?” Greg asked, unbelievingly at first but the feeling didn't last long. How could he ever think that Mycroft _didn't_ speak Russian? “What did they say?”

“They are expecting a delivery of forged banknotes. It will arrive tomorrow in Silvertown at the docks.”

The smugness wasn't very pronounced but it was there, pointing at Greg's perpetual fear like an obnoxious bully at the teacher's pet.

“And when did you intend to tell me?” Greg asked quietly. He needed to get up and dressed. Immediately. “And while we’re at it, tell me how long..." His voice failed and he cleared his throat to get rid of the developing lump, while his hands struggled to do up the buttons of his shirt. That was no wonder, though, as they much preferred the idea of balling into fists.

Mycroft scrambled to his feet and Greg assumed that he was dressing as well but he found himself unable to look up.

“How long did you plan to wait for me to show up at your doorstep, desperate... desperate for some sign of you?” Greg rasped, barely able to control his voice. He tucked his shirt in his trousers and picked up the jacket from the floor. “Just fucking tell me, how long?”

“Greg, believe me, I would've told you in time. And there’s an official notice already on its way to you in case you need...” The voice had steadily lost its strength until it failed completely.

 _At least I’ve witnessed Mycroft Holmes losing the ability to speak in my presence,_ Greg thought and looked up to take in Mycroft’s bewildered face.

“I thought we trusted each other,” Greg said and shook his head. “Why not cut out the games for once? You just can’t, can you?”

Mycroft Holmes shouldn’t look unsure, Greg decided. Nature had simply not designed him to express such sentiment and the lack of fine-tuning resulted in something with a closer resemblance to self-contempt.

The door yielded to Greg’s pull and he stepped outside into the warm spring sun.

“It won't work that way,” he said and started towards the main road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big hug to my co-author CrackshotKate who doesn't even flinch when she gets an otherwise complete chapter with a note saying -insert orgasm here-.


	12. Chapter 12

The first time it happened, his mind was still miles away and he didn’t really think about who would be on the other end of the line. The moment he heard his name though, he uttered a silent curse.

“ _Greg, we_ –" was all Mycroft was able to say before Greg's thumb found the right button. He vowed to be more careful from then on.

In the cab, his phone rang twice more but Greg rejected the calls after a glance at the display. It didn’t matter that he felt like an idiot doing it. Everyone was an idiot compared to Mycroft, so what?

After a short stop at his flat to change his soiled clothes, he went back to the Yard. There was a case to solve and a raid to arrange, so he had no time for useless pondering. Purposefully, he left the lift, nodded at his handler who threw him a dark look and was about to enter his office when a voice addressed him from behind.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade.” Greg whipped around and a bulky man in a suit pressed a big brown envelope in his hand.

“What…?” Watching him stride away, Greg inadvertently crumpled the paper in his hand. There was no use in yelling at him to piss off, though it would be a real relief to do so for a change.

He closed the door to his office and then glowered at the envelope with its ostentatious ‘classified’ stamp. _You need this information, damn it, now open that thing and get on with it,_ Greg ordered his hands and they reluctantly complied.

It was exactly like he had imagined it. The top secret instructions included the time, the location on the docks and even the name of the suspect: Sommer, a former Stasi spy, who had become rich on the basis of trafficked SED money – party funds that vanished after the Wall had come down.

No wonder he still had good connections to the Russians, Greg thought when suddenly his phone rang again.

“Not now,” he barked but checked if it really was Mycroft. Of course it was him. He had waited as long as Greg needed to read the file and then what? Phoned to accept the effusive thanks Greg would feel compelled to shower him with?

He rejected the call and grabbed one of his pencils to snap it in half, its resounding crack drowning in a persistent knock on the door.

“What?” Greg shouted and Sally Donovan stepped inside the office.

“There’s this thing about the victim’s husband –" she started but when she looked at Greg, her voice fell. Each second she stood there and stared at him, Greg’s nerves became even more of a screaming cacophony.

“What the heck are you talking about?” he ground out, trying to keep himself in check.

“It’s… nothing,” she said quickly and scurried away.

God, what was it with people? Was there some general accordance to drive him nuts? Greg chucked the sorry remains of the pencil into the bin and stood up to march through the open space office and down the hallway, when in the corner of his eye, he saw his current tail trying to stick to his heels.

“I’m just going for a piss, for God’s sake. Get lost already!” Greg yelled and the man beat a hasty retreat similar to Donovan’s. Stopping dead in his tracks, Greg hesitated before following his watchdog to his usual position near the lift.

“I'm sorry about that,” Greg said and the alarm in the man’s face faded. “You know what? Drive me home, okay?”

“Yes, Sir.” The officer’s whole posture spoke of relief and while Greg was fetching his jacket, he tried to shake his annoyance because the lackey couldn't really help the fact that he was following Mycroft's orders.

As if his thoughts had been scanned and subsequently activated an alarm somewhere, his mobile announced a text. Mycroft.

“Now we're reverting back to texting?” Greg scoffed and switched off the phone.

“Sir?” Greg bit his tongue. His handler was already at his side again and surely asked himself why a respected DI of Scotland Yard was speaking to his mobile as if it could respond. Nevertheless, Greg couldn't put it back in his pocket and even when he had arrived at his flat, he placed it in the middle of his kitchen table.

Glaring at it accusingly while waiting for a microwave meal to heat up, he asked himself why it was bugging him so much that Mycroft had played him. What reason had he had to believe that the elder Holmes would leave off an integral part of his life and instead become a harmless middle-aged man with a noodle fetish and more suits than were strictly good for him?

Hell, this time there had even been some sex in it for him, Greg mused, and if there was someone who knew how to kiss, it was Mycroft Holmes.

Greg closed his eyes and tuned out the microwave's constant humming. Those lips... they had been the perfect combination of softness and demanding force. Sad that there had been so little time to explore that mouth and the secrets it shared so willingly. To enjoy the nearness, the body heat...

Those hands had been everywhere, expertly touching him with such abandon as if they never wanted to let go again. God… to be the object of someone’s desire again, to feel that someone really wanted him…

A ping sounded through Greg's mind and slowly he woke from his reverie, automatically reaching out to open the microwave’s door. He should take out the food and eat, his brain deduced, yet his arm muscles suddenly tensed up and refused their cooperation.

Sure, Mycroft had wanted him and he had made sure that he got him, regardless of the collateral damage. Greg inhaled and shook his head. This wasn’t new, so why did the whole story affect him that much, making it impossible to contain his anger? Just one thought of the last ten hours and his blood was boiling. Mycroft's arrogant face...

Deciding to revel in his rage, Greg ripped the foil off the plastic tub and even managed to eat half of the food. He’d deal. The sickening feeling at the back of his mind that was just waiting to sink its claws into him was a result of the tasteless meal.

Concentrate. Get as much rest as possible. Those were his prerogatives, he told himself, but after a night with only short bouts of sleep, Greg doubted he would be able to work to capacity that day. Sipping at the coffee that substituted his breakfast, he switched on his phone: four messages, all by Mycroft.

“Stay the fuck out of my life,” Greg yelled at his mobile, thankful for the following wave of rage that carried him through the day. Involving as few people as possible, he organised the raid and when night fell, he watched the task force storm the warehouse.

Until then, he had been able to fool himself into believing that something would work out for him for a change, but when he saw a black SUV speed away, four police cars in pursuit, he knew that it was Sommer and that they wouldn’t get him. How could they? Lately everything Greg touched was doomed somehow.

He briefly supervised the securing of the crime scene, but Sally Donovan ran a tight ship on the forensics guys and there was no reason for him to stand in their way. Instead, he could sneak off and do the one thing that would fit the recent events perfectly.

Half an hour later he was back to where he belonged, at least he thought he was. Yet when he stared at the well-known pattern of the counter’s surface, the bar’s formerly cosy atmosphere suddenly oppressed him like a stinking, noisy mist.

He couldn’t solve a case, couldn’t have sex without fouling up everything and altogether he was a pathetic excuse of a man and a police officer. If it hadn’t been for Mycroft, though, none of this would have happened. The conniving, manipulating bastard…

Greg took out his phone and switched it on. If there were even more messages in his mailbox, he should get rid of them, otherwise he might overlook something that came from the Yard.

Determined to press delete, he stopped nonetheless. There was no need to be afraid of the messages, Greg told himself, he could very well read them.

_Please answer the phone. MH_

He scrolled down.

_Talk to me, Greg. MH_

_I need to see you, please call me back. MH_

_Don’t do this to me. We have to meet. MH_

It was strange imagining Mycroft typing those messages and it stirred something painful in Greg that transported him back to the day before – to that short moment when he had felt both bewilderingly free and safe at once.

The stool next to him was pulled back and Greg didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Quickly, he switched off his phone.

“You shouldn’t be here, you’re a target,” Mycroft said quietly.

“Thanks for reminding me of my failure,” Greg scoffed. “Although it was remarkable that Sommer had even been there in the first place.”

“You know what this means.”

“Yeah, I know,” Greg said, but it wasn’t easy to accept the fact that they had a mole in the Yard.

Trying to avoid appearing even more cowardly than he felt, he looked up and met Mycroft’s calm gaze with as much steadfastness as he could muster. Unlike their previous meetings in the pub, Mycroft stood out this time. The much too elegant suit didn’t fit the surroundings at all and Greg suspected that he hadn’t had time to change.

“Why didn’t you answer my calls?” Mycroft asked and Greg tore his eyes away from the tie that made his fingers itch to loosen it.

“You know why,” Greg answered coldly, hoping that particular part of their conversation would be officially over with his rebuff.

“But I want _you_ to tell me,” Mycroft maintained and Greg felt a frown forming on his forehead when the nagging anger started to drive adrenalin through his body.

“Stop playing with me, I’ve had it,” he snarled and immediately flinched at the sound of his own voice. “I’m sick of the games,” he added a bit more subdued.

“Gregory –" Mycroft began but stopped when a hand silenced him.

“Quit calling me that, will you? Not even my mother calls me Gregory.”

“Then it was about time someone did,” Mycroft growled and Greg couldn’t believe that he had a smirk directed at him.

“I know why you don’t want me to address you by your given name,” Mycroft said and raised an eyebrow. “Or by your rank for that matter.”

Greg clenched his teeth. Of course Mycroft had known, and if that hadn’t been enough, he leaned on Greg with his shoulder and aimed for his ear. Much to Greg’s chagrin, he couldn’t move anywhere because the stool to his right was also taken.

“As I was aware of the effect I have on you,” Mycroft whispered, “I may have exaggerated it a bit with regard to exploiting that knowledge.”

“A bit?” Greg gave an annoyed laugh but the mouth breathing against his ear didn’t retreat.

“It seemed necessary in the light of your spectacular readiness to ignore what was so blatantly obvious,” that voice purred. “Namely the effect that _you_ have on _me_.”

Greg coughed. “I've acknowledged it, haven't I? Hell, yesterday I had it in my hand!” he whispered insistently. “But that’s not the fucking point and I’m not in the mood to explain things to you that are already crystal clear.” He drank up his beer. “If you'll excuse me, I’m going home.”

The hand on his thigh rooting him to the bar stool was of a different opinion, though. “Let me take you,” Mycroft firm voice ordered him and Greg sighed.

“Whatever,” he said at last and the hand was lifted again. He wasn’t afraid to sit in a car with Mycroft, damn it, but when he sank into the leather seat, he had to fight a fatal lapse into their old comfortable routine of meeting for a beer and taking the limo afterwards.

Drowsily he watched the street lights drift by until his brain caught up with him.

“Where the fuck are we going?” Greg hissed but Mycroft just shrugged.

“Home.”

“I live in the other direction.”

“I don’t,” Mycroft said matter-of-factly and held Greg’s angry gaze.

“Stop the car, you hear me?” Greg snarled. “You can’t just do what you want like I’m one of your pet projects. I’ve already told you that it won’t work, this… thing with us.”

Mycroft seemed to have some problems reining in a certain exasperation that wanted to manifest on his face but in the end, he managed to school it into something more sympathetic.

“You did. It doesn’t mean that you’re right, though, and I’m sure that just a few arguments are necessary to convince you of your error.”

Greg glowered at Mycroft. “You’re such an arrogant fuck, you know that?”

“Of course I do.” The amused smile was slightly contagious but Greg kept up the annoyed frown. “Yet as we’ve only got approximately fourteen minutes left in this car, I would like to state my case as quickly as possible and show you the main aspects that are bound to win you over. Are you prepared to give me such a chance?”

Greg saw that the hopeful face bare of any pretence was a fake and he suspected that Mycroft didn’t put too much effort in it, because he already knew that whatever he asked for, Greg would be unable to refuse.

“Go ahead,” Greg said, his voice carrying more defeat than he had planned. “But I don’t think fourteen minutes will be enough. You’ve got a hell of a lot of explaining to do.”

A very hungry hawk that had spotted an exceedingly careless rodent – the look that now stole on Mycroft’s face was more like that, Greg thought and suppressed the urge to duck away.

“As I can count on your cooperation, allow me to bring something to your awareness,” Mycroft said and paused, seemingly to enjoy the panic that Greg felt taking hold of his eyes. “Like numerous other times, you haven’t listened carefully. This is not about _explanations_.”

Shit, Greg cursed in his mind, he had said ‘show’.

“I’m warning you…” A feeble attempt to delay the inevitable as Mycroft already shifted to speak directly in Greg’s ear.

“Don’t worry, I won’t use up all of the time,” he growled. “Three seconds to open your fly, not more than a minute of manual stimulation and, judging by yesterday’s experience, under five minutes of your cock in my mouth to send you over the edge.”

Greg’s breath caught. “Thanks for taking this so seriously,” he scoffed weakly but a nose rubbed along the shell of his ear, accompanied by a tutting voice.

“Tsk, Greg. I intend to take this _very_ seriously. There will be enough time for your objections.” The nose now inhaled along his throat. “But as I’m also planning on reducing you to a heap of helpless lust, your ability to think might be impaired in the process.”

“That’s low,” Greg croaked and tried to ignore the teeth nipping at his earlobe.

“True, but we’ll return to higher levels eventually,” Mycroft whispered and his hand moved upwards on Greg’s thigh to gently cup the hardness it found at the end of its journey. “Yet at the moment our understanding works best like this.”

A swift movement and Mycroft had positioned himself between Greg’s legs, never taking his hand off Greg’s cock.

“Why should I let you?” Greg panted although he knew he was past caring. “Why should I stick to the rules?”

“At least one of us has to,” Mycroft answered with a grin.

“Thanks for proving my point,” was the last thing Greg was able to say before skilful fingers opened his fly and pulled down his briefs. One firm grip of the hand around his cock and Greg squeezed his eyes shut and moaned uncontrollably.

“Thanks for proving _my_ point,” he heard a satisfied voice. “I think we can forego the second item on the programme.”

The deft fingers that pulled down his foreskin were directly followed by soft lips and Greg got the impression that it was indeed possible to be torn apart by pleasure.

“Oh God,” he groaned when the tongue investigated every detail of his glans. The addictive heat disappeared and instead, the lips travelled along his shaft.

“That’s almost right,” Mycroft mumbled and licked the entire way up to his bulging head again. “What I’d really like to hear, though, is my name. I don’t know why you so rarely say it.”

Immediately, the mouth engulfed his cock again and sucked hard.

“Mycroft!” Greg shouted, feeling the vibrations of a chuckle on his sensitised skin. He clutched the seat in a last attempt to prevent his hips from pushing forward into the scorching heat, but it was simply too good to keep back.       

Sensing Greg’s difficulties, Mycroft’s hands pressed him into the padding, effectively rendering him immobile before the suction became almost unbearably strong. If this wasn’t already enough to send Greg’s mind and body into overdrive, firm lips suddenly saw their task in rubbing the contours of his glans every time they descended… a hint of teeth…

Greg snapped his eyes open. He had to see it.

Instantly mesmerised by the show of devoted concentration – as if Mycroft was sucking the most delicious icelolly imaginable – Greg was determined to savour the sight of his cock disappearing in that eager mouth for as long as he could, but when he felt the throat constrict around the tip, he automatically threw back his head again.

“Are those windows… bullet-proof?” Greg panted, his sluggish brain trying to process the curious pattern that appeared at the corner of his eyes, but Mycroft murmured something around Greg’s cock, causing a momentary mental blackout. Desperately, Greg tried to focus.

“That almost looks as if –" and then shards exploded around him.


	13. Chapter 13

“I thought they were bullet-proof!” Greg shouted and tried to duck down lower, almost lying flat on his stomach in the foot space of the car.

“And I said that it depends on the calibre.”

The driver sped around a corner and Greg’s head bumped against something hard – Mycroft’s shoe.

“Get away from the door!” Greg pulled at Mycroft’s leg and when he moved to the middle of the car, Greg pulled him nearer, embracing his waist to clutch him as closely as possible while a part of the rear window rained down on them.

The sickening sound of the constantly firing weapon simply didn't end and the driver’s evasive manoeuvres couldn’t prevent the car getting hit by a large portion of the bullets, the erratic rhythm of their dull thuds in the metal stringing Greg’s nerves to breaking point. 

Suddenly, the gunfire stopped and the car braked hard, hurling Greg towards the partition to the front seats. His back collided with it painfully, but a quick check showed that he could still move his legs.

“Where are we?” Greg asked, squinting at the bright lights shining through the broken windows.

“In my garage.” Mycroft’s voice was muffled by a jacket and only reluctantly, Greg's arms let go of the body they were still clutching.

“Are you okay?” Greg asked and couldn’t keep his hands from convincing themselves of it. No head wounds, no holes in the suit, no…

“Greg,” Mycroft smiled and grabbed the hand that was checking his forehead to hold it still. “I'm fine.”

The engine stopped and they heard a door slam shut.

“Shit.” Greg fumbled with his trousers and barely managed to close them before the door was opened and the driver peeked inside.

“Are you all right, Sirs?”

“Yes, thank you, Michael.” Mycroft clambered outside, followed by Greg on shaky legs.

“You’re one hell of a driver,” Greg said and slapped the man on the shoulder.

“Thank you, Sir.” Despite his outward composure, the driver stepped backwards and leaned against the wall. Good idea, Greg thought and steadied himself as well. He got out his phone and was just about to call the Yard, when a hand gripped his wrist.

“This time, I have to do it,” Mycroft said quietly and Greg frowned. Of course, Mycroft was a bigwig, this was not about some insignificant member of the Met any more.

He tuned out Mycroft’s voice and looked at the car, wondering what forensics would find out about the kind of weapon that could penetrate steel and bullet-proof glass like that. Feeling slightly more stable, he took two steps forward and surveyed the damage.

It was a miracle that they hadn’t been hit - plain and simple. Staring at the broken windows and the holes in the door, Greg suddenly felt another shoulder touching his. Mycroft had finished his phone call and was standing next to him, his eyes fixed on the ruined car.

“We were lucky,” he said and Greg fought the immediate urge to turn around and swoop him up in an embrace, the shocked driver be damned. He wanted to feel him so badly that it nearly tore him apart and when he turned his head instead to look at him at least, he was almost sure that Mycroft wanted to do the same.

But the moment was over when they heard sirens approaching and swishing over his phone, Mycroft opened the garage door. In no time, the driveway was full of black cars and the garage overcrowding with agents Greg had never seen before.

They had to be of a very well-equipped unit, though, as the material they conjured up was something his forensics team could only dream of, but when Greg wanted to find out more about it, he was shushed and sent away.

“Idiots,” he murmured and crossed his arms. “They're treating me like a rookie. What unit are they from anyway?” he scoffed, throwing Mycroft an annoyed glance.

The answer – a raised eyebrow accompanied by a frown – did nothing to calm him down and the well-trodden path towards personal and professional humiliation was laid out before him again. Greg was already fighting the first signs of extreme irritation, when someone cleared his throat next to him.

“I need to ask you some questions, Sir.” Greg looked up. That hadn’t sounded like a request at all. Typical.

“Where were you when the attack started?”

“In the back of the car, damn it, where else?” Greg ground out but the guy in the suit didn’t bat an eyelid.

“Could you identify your attackers?”

“No, I couldn’t, as I was rather focused on not getting shot!” Greg scoffed. “I heard a motorbike and an automatic weapon and if the guy hadn’t had four arms, I suppose there were two people on the bike. And while we’re at it: There were fucking bullets flying everywhere and we chose not to catch them!” he shouted.

Completely unperturbed, the agent typed something in his device, just uttering an indistinct grunt here and there.

“You –" Greg snarled but an insistent tug at his sleeve threw him for a loop.

“I think that’s enough, let them do their work,” Mycroft said quietly and then faced the agent. “You have my number if you need further information.”

“Yes, Sir.” The man turned around without taking his eyes off the oversized mobile he was abusing with his thumbs, and Greg realised that there wasn’t much use in scowling at him anymore.

“I have to go back to the Yard,” Greg said, more to himself than to anyone else and he felt the hand at his sleeve crumpling the cloth as it balled into a fist.

“We won’t make this a case of history repeating, do you hear me?” Mycroft hissed. Startled, Greg searched his gaze but only met eyes that had narrowed to slits.

He could throw a fit or let himself be led towards to door that connected the garage and the house – those were the options those eyes gave him. Glowering back but following the lead of the fingers on his sleeve regardless, Greg marched to the door and when they were out of the agents’ earshot, Mycroft grabbed him by his arm.

“Go to the kitchen and make us some tea.”

“I have to –" Greg started but Mycroft’s face darkened.

“Go and make tea. Now.”

“I’m not your fucking butler, Mycroft,” Greg snapped when he was pulled to the side and the door closed behind him.

“No, you’re not, but you also can’t go back to the Yard. There are important things at hand that we can deal with from here, understood?”

Again one of those questions that wasn’t one, but at the same time, the fingers let his arm loose and combed through his hair instead, Mycroft's cryptic smile accompanying them.

Greg slouched his shoulders. “Yeah, okay.”

Mycroft went down the hallway and going by the footsteps, he climbed the stairs afterwards. Still trying to shake the impression of having been hypnotised by some touching and a smile, Greg shuffled to the kitchen and searched his brain for where Mycroft stored the tea.

 _Maybe he’s right_ , Greg thought when he filled the kettle and took out the mugs. There was something soothing about everyday tasks like that and slowly, the level of adrenalin in his blood decreased. When the tea was ready, his hand was completely steady again and he drank up, successfully suppressing the fact that he had just been shot at.

And regardless of whatever was still lurking to throw him off course, it effectively vanished when Mycroft entered the kitchen and sat down at the table, his casual self once more. The, fear, the agents, the Yard and the nagging insecurity – everything was erased by the relief of seeing him. Just seeing him drinking his tea.

Greg compressed his lips but forced himself to speak in the end.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what, exactly?” Mycroft asked, clearly surprised.

“I shouldn't have involved you in this. Now you're in the line of fire, too,” Greg said but Mycroft shook his head.

“Greg, look at my life, nothing has changed for me. And even if...”

He paused and Greg tried to make sense of what he had heard. Of course Mycroft knew what it felt like to be threatened. Already the house spoke volumes.

Grey eyes sought his attention and they pinned him down with such determination that Greg could almost feel the look physically.

“It doesn’t matter, do you understand?” Mycroft said unflinchingly. “Even if it had meant putting my life in more danger than it already was in, you're hopefully aware of the fact that there's nothing I wouldn't do for you.”

He finished his tea as if nothing had happened, ignoring Greg’s disbelieving gaze, and stood up, nodding in the direction of the hallway.

“Follow me.”

Still caught up in a strange sort of limbo, Greg walked behind him and climbed the stairs, just coming to his senses again when a door snapped shut behind him and Mycroft’s face appeared in his line of vision. Looking Greg straight in the eye, the perpetual frown slightly more pronounced than normal, Mycroft didn't try to hide his exasperation.

“And to bring the point across once and for all,” he growled. “I don’t intend to make you one of my projects. I intend to make you my life.”

Greg froze. There it was again, the thick mist that dulled his perception and took away his speech like before in the kitchen. But what could he say, even if he had full control of his voice?

Entranced, Greg saw that particular smile steal on Mycroft's face again, playing around the corners of his mouth and wandering up to his eyes. What was it about that smile that attracted him like a moth was drawn to the light?

He leaned forward and tested the curve of those lips with his tongue, heard Mycroft inhale and felt the intake of breath brush past his mouth.

Something was different. Without a conscious order from his brain, Greg's hand found its way to Mycroft's hair, parting the slightly damp strands. He had showered, Greg's nose now informed him as well, tracing the smell of clean skin and soap to the place behind Mycroft's ear where another component was added, something heady and delicious...

Greg breathed in deeply and at a blow, all his senses were activated again, flooding his mind with sensations and sending out sparks from where the hand touched the hair and lips lingered on the skin of the throat. A tidal wave of arousal washed over him, rushing him forwards to remedy the lack of contact that he suddenly became painfully aware of.

“Mycroft.” He had his voice back. A whisper, but it was there, and the busy hands that didn't find enough skin and his mouth challenging soft lips could finally count on some backing. 

“I want to… I...” Greg started and briefly took in Mycroft’s face, eyes dark with lust, before he dove down to his throat to kiss every patch of skin he could reach. 

“Do with me as you please,” that voice rumbled between short gasps of breath and the body yielded to the constant pressure, let itself be pushed against the door and welcomed Greg’s movements, the grinding, the search for an increase of friction.

“Where is –?” Greg managed to ask before a hand reached between them and targeted his cock, a sudden fierce grip prompting Greg to sink his teeth into Mycroft’s shirted shoulder. 

“Bedside table.” His mind registered the breathy answer, kicking his limbs into action and with a brutal effort, Greg managed to let go of Mycroft and step back.

“Undress.”

The seconds he needed to go to the bed, open the drawer and grab the tube to pocket it were enough for Mycroft to unbutton his shirt but everything was still going far too slow.

Greg frantically fiddled with Mycroft’s jeans and boxers and then, at last, he could feel him, naked, every inch at his hands’ disposal, the chest hair, the skin, the softness and strength, the hardness against his hip…

Greg noticed fingers busying themselves with his shirt and stopped them.

“Not now,” he whispered and squeezed his eyes shut. “Turn around.”

When he opened his eyes again, he had to fight the wish to forget himself, to let his passions rule without giving a second thought of the consequences, obeying the words that still resounded in his head. _Do with me as you please._

Suppressing his almost violent desire, Greg drank in the sight before him.

Mycroft was waiting. Supporting himself on the door, panting heavily and waiting for Greg to begin. He would stay like that, even if it took some time to fish the tube out of his pocket, unscrew it and squeeze some of the lube on his fingers.

Greg stepped forward and rested his forehead on Mycroft’s warm shoulder. _Calm down, keep yourself in check_ , he told himself and reached around to encircle the erection he was sure to find.

A guttural moan reverberated against the door and Greg clenched his teeth, trying to ignore his cock straining against the seams of his trousers and concentrate on his slick finger trailing down the crack. Not to hear the desperate sound of his name but just massage the puckered skin, tune out everything, the quiet groan, the rising and falling of the ribs and instead advance into the tight channel.

A slight trembling of Mycroft's thighs acknowledged the second finger that also aimed for and found the right spot, but Greg’s mind solely focused on the skin his temple was leaning against, catalogued the heady smell and the slight sheen of sweat, desperately trying to block the overwhelming feeling of being inside of Mycroft.

“Gregory… please stop. I can’t...”

He was right. There was no way to draw this out, and immediately Greg started to tackle the top button of his shirt.

“Help me,” he pleaded and clever fingers assisted him, not even letting go when he stumbled backwards to the bed, tripping over trousers pooling around his feet. In the end he even managed to push Mycroft onto the mattress first, landing on him with no regard for the severity of his impact.

Finally he could align their bodies and feel each glorious patch of skin. Greg closed his eyes and felt the body under him respond to his touch, hips jerked to make erections rub against each other and a mouth complied with every demand…

The fire in his groin was already on the verge of flashing over to consume the rest of him when Greg managed to grab the condom from the bedside table. He sat back on his heels to roll it on and reached to the floor to retrieve the lube, feeling Mycroft squirm free from his weight.

Only peripherally was Greg aware of what was going on around him when his slick hand coated the condom. Instinctively the other hand reached out, hoping to encounter Mycroft's overheated flesh. When it did, it followed the path to his pliant entrance, focusing everything on it, narrowing down Greg’s perception to the three fingers disappearing in the tight hole while the body under him pushed against the digits to get them deeper inside.

“I have to… now,” Greg ground out as he hastily withdrew his fingers, but there was no way in hell he could wait for any response. Instead, he just positioned his cock and pushed through the muscle, trying to go slow but failing as the sweltering heat of the tunnel invited him in.

Holding on to Mycroft's hips, he watched his length disappear, every nerve ending bursting to flames already at the first stroke.

“I can't... God, Mycroft, I…” Greg clenched his teeth. The raging storm in him that had nearly swept him off his feet minutes ago came back with a vengeance, capsizing him over the point of no return.

Unable to counter the urge for more of the heat and the friction, so much so that he no longer needed oxygen, let alone to think, his muscles automatically responded to the unbearable pull in his groin and another deep stroke swept him along in a torrent that sprang from his cock and drowned him in pleasure.  

He kept on thrusting into the heat, desperately trying to prolong the grip of the addictive connection. Sweat trickled into his eyes and his fingers clung to increasingly slippery skin, but only Mycroft’s laboured breathing made the remnants of Greg’s conscious mind return to reality.

“Damn, I’m sorry…” Greg rasped and grudgingly pulled out, mourning the loss of the suffocating warmth.

“It doesn’t matter, I –"

Ignoring the feeble protest, Greg pushed him over and the rest of his sentence was replaced by a quiet moan when Greg engulfed his already leaking cock, licking and sucking his way around the rim of the glans to work his way down its length, probing the veins with his tongue.

“I can’t…” Mycroft panted and knowingly, Greg licked the liquid off the tip of his cock. He refused to be the only one losing control and mercilessly, he resumed his path.  He attacked the swollen glans with his tongue and disregarded the increasingly insistent warnings on Mycroft’s part until the man under him surrendered, answering each peak of stimulation with erratic movements, increasing to a staccato of jerking hips and trembling legs.

Greg’s mouth filled with bitter liquid and he heard his name cried out again and again, eventually dying down in an exhausted puff of air.

Greg sat back and wiped his mouth. “Really, we should get some more exercise. We’re out of practice, it seems.” 

“Yes… I concur,” Mycroft said between gasps and while Greg removed the condom, he indulged in the unusual sight of a defenceless Holmes. “We could’ve started a bit earlier with the lessons, though.”

Greg let himself drop on the mattress next to Mycroft and immediately felt an all-encompassing tiredness. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he mumbled into the sheet.

“In all honesty, Greg, if you hadn't followed me up here, I would've grabbed the grape seed oil and begged you to fuck me on the kitchen table.”

“Grape seed oil?” Greg grunted sleepily. “Unprotected sex – and all you're worried about is your cholesterol level?”

Fingers gently combed through the hairline of his neck, rubbing away every single last trace of tension and venturing further along his scalp to leave distinct tracks of pure relaxation.

“You know that you're insufferable, don't you?” the voice teased him, following the soothing fingers like a blissful tingling.

“Yeah, and you're...” Greg heard himself say before he succumbed to sleep.

 

____________________________________

 

“Gregory.”

What? Mycroft? Bewildered, Greg pieced the preceding night together, becoming aware of the obnoxious ring tone of his phone at the same time. It wasn’t annoying enough, he thought, because he had slept right through it.

“Where is my…?” He wracked his brain over the whereabouts of his mobile but when he managed to open his eyes completely, he saw that Mycroft was already holding it in his hand, a stray ray of sunlight reflecting in its display.

“It’s the Yard, Gregory, and if they notify you that your assassin has woken up from his coma, it is time for me to tell you something.”

 


	14. Chapter 14

Half an hour. They’d only had half an hour and then it was back in the cab again.

Greg sighed and glanced at the pavement outside the back window where commuters were hurrying along in their uniform suits of black or grey. He felt the traffic stopping and flowing in regular intervals, the cab advancing at the expected snail's pace.

Half an hour hadn't been long enough, Greg thought, nowhere near long enough to process what had happened and get used to the new things it brought along.

Like Mycroft’s warm hands when they cupped his chin. ‘You don’t have to go,’ Mycroft had said with that wistful look on his face and he had been right. _I don’t have to go, but I want to_. Greg could still hear his own answer in his head. Had he really wanted to go?

Mycroft had understood. He’d got up and thrown on his dressing gown, quickly excusing himself to shower. The prat. Greg suppressed a chuckle. As if he would have let Mycroft shower alone.

Sliding down in the backseat of the cab, Greg closed his eyes and tried to remember every detail, but there simply hadn’t been enough time to really enjoy the soapy wet skin, the sloppy kisses that grew too heated, the cocks rubbing under the spray of the water…

Patiently, Mycroft had managed to keep him at bay. He had lathered down, turned off the tap and even managed a subdued but still recognisable version of the smile Greg didn’t seem to get enough of.

‘We have to dress if you really want to go,’ Mycroft had said and when Greg hadn’t let go of him regardless, he had done that damnable whispering thing once more, a tongue tracing the contour of Greg’s ear to introduce that compelling voice.

‘When you’re back.’

What would it be like to have those purposeful hands on him again, measuring every inch of his skin? To feel Mycroft’s cock inside him, touching that place deep inside of him, eliciting an even greater inferno than their first connection had unleashed…

Greg blinked and took a deep breath. He had to focus on quenching the first stirrings in his crotch because being on police business whilst fighting an erection wouldn’t be too advisable. Although the steamy scenario faded away at the stale smell of the cab’s interior, some things he just couldn't get out of his head.

Mycroft’s hands on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. A nose buried in his hair. The kiss shortly before Greg opened the front door.

Whatever Mycroft had said, when his mouth gently sucked in Greg’s lower lip, teasing it with the tip of his tongue, it was clear that he didn’t want Greg to go either. Why else would he invite his tongue in and entangle it in such an enticing dance? Sneak hands in trousers and under the collar of his shirt?

The hospital came in sight and Greg tried to block the lingering taste of toast and blackcurrant jam that made every single fibre of his body yearn to stay in the cab and go back to where he had come from. Reluctantly, he got out and crossed the short distance to the main entrance, heard the automatic doors open and walked down the corridors, just a nurse here and there nodding in his direction.

It was too early in the morning for visitors and instead, the scarce personnel scurried through the hallways, their synthetic slippers standing in sharp contrast to Greg’s brogues. The squeaking on the linoleum pierced through the eerie silence but Greg tuned out the sound and focused on the numbering of the corridors instead.

Twenty-five. That was it. And the seventh room would be his room.

Although Greg felt his pulse hammering in his throat and temples, he kept walking, aiming for the door that would provide so many answers when it was opened. He needed to get at the truth and his hand on the door handle slowly acknowledged this fact as well when it started to press down.

He went inside the room and immediately, his hair stood on end, all instincts on high alert. Fight, flee, do something, they screamed and automatically, Greg stepped backwards until he bumped against the wall.

“What are you…”

“Shut up,” the man with the mask said, motioning him with his gun to go towards the bed. “Move over there, behind the screen.”

Greg felt sweat break out on his neck but his heart rate slowed down a little, professional routines taking over to prevent him from doing something stupid like bolting.

“Calm down, okay. Think of what you’re doing. Sommer’s never going to get away with this. You can’t just shoot a police officer.”

Following the motions of the gun, Greg stepped around the man sideways and moved backwards as slowly as he could.

“You see what he can do in a second,” the muffled voice said but Greg shook his head.

“We’re going to root out Sommer’s organisation and pick it apart, starting with that mole in the Yard...”

A deep laugh resonated through the room. “Good luck with that.”

Greg stopped. He knew that laugh.

“Darby?” From the drugs department, Greg was sure of it.

Instantly, the sound of laughing subsided and the man pointed the gun at the heavily bandaged patient lying in the bed, firing at him before Greg had the chance to utter a word. He just heard the thud of the silenced gun and saw the cover being ripped apart by the impact of the bullets, holes gaping in the cloth as they would be gaping in the body beneath, and all Greg could think was that if he too died now, it would definitely not be the right time, God, he really didn’t want to die…

“Not bad. I’ll tell Sommer that you were a worthy adversary.” Greg registered the words somewhere in the back of his mind but all he was aware of was the gun now pointing in his direction. A bang – it was that of the door and finally they came, shouting, rushing ahead, and the gun and the man went down under a crowd of black clad agents.  

One of them Greg recognised from the night before, so it seemed okay to just let go and let them handle everything, leave the crowded room and the noise behind. In passing, Greg had a last look at the bandaged dummy, which lay in the bed as peacefully as it had during the entire turmoil.

Greg shook his head. Mycroft and his schemes.

Somewhat entranced, he opened the door and wandered down the corridors, adrenaline still swamping his system but no racing heart accompanying it, as if everything had come to a strangely jittery standstill.

Outside the building, he was almost blinded by the light and preventively aimed for the place where most cars were parked, but after a few steps, he was stopped dead in his tracks.

“Gregory.”

He looked over his shoulder and tried to make his eyes accommodate to the half-light of the shadows that were cast by the morning sun, though he didn’t have to see the man to know that it was Mycroft. 

He was standing in a dark doorway, waiting for Greg to approach him it seemed, and he even kept his eyes on the police cars and officers keeping the bystanders back when Greg had joined him. A step to the side and their arms were touching, but still no reaction.

“You could’ve told me a bit earlier than this morning that you had placed the assassin somewhere secret in case he would become a target, too,” Greg said and observed how Mycroft’s jaws worked when he clenched his teeth.

“It didn’t seem overly important,” he said eventually. “There were other things higher on my agenda.”

“Do you know how Darby managed to get here so quickly?” The thought had accompanied him since he had left the hospital room.

“It appears he faked a report in the Yard's internal system so that one of the secretaries called you.”

Greg saw a slight line forming in the corner of Mycroft’s mouth. “But you didn’t anticipate that they wanted to lure me out as well, did you? What would’ve happened if I hadn’t been in your bed when the phone rang?”

“That wouldn’t have made a difference,” Mycroft answered and the line even deepened. Something was worrying him, Greg thought, but it obviously wasn’t the case. So what did it mean, what Mycroft had just said?

“My line’s tapped, right?” Greg asked the stony face still studying the scene before them. “And everything we talked about on the phone in the meanwhile?”

“I told you that nothing had changed for me,” Mycroft said quietly. “You’re going to be the one who’d have to adjust in case…” The voice trailed off and Mycroft cast down his eyes.

An insecure Holmes didn’t do at all, Greg decided and while he was trying to wrap his mind around Mycroft’s words, he couldn’t stifle the urge to fidget in his clothes.

“That life of yours… is that the reason why you have a bullet-proof vest in your wardrobe?” Unbuttoning his jacket and loosening the fastenings of the vest, Greg squirmed free and let everything drop on the floor.

“Among other things.”

“That wasn’t the reason why you made me believe you were dead, was it?” Mycroft’s eyes stayed fixed on the ground, erasing Greg’s hopes. “So it was? What did you do? Test me with some act of faith or something?” he scoffed. “Quite risky, I’d say.”

“I’m used to such risks,” came the whispered answer and Greg frowned.

“It hurt, you know,” he said, leaning slightly more to the side when he felt the adjoining arm withdrawing a little.

“I know,” Mycroft said and finally raised his head again. “And I’m sorry. Something like that will never happen again.”

Greg deciphered the face, puzzling together some of the vast number of pieces that were laid out before him. He meant what he said, that much Greg could see, but it always depended on what _exactly_ he had said.

“Other things will, right?” Greg asked. “Something like that here, when you’re not telling me about your plan to trap someone or, I don’t know, the real reason behind an abduction or whatever... There’ll always be those cases. Seriously, the whole ‘trust’ bullshit was just for show, wasn’t it?”

Mycroft cocked his head, disappointment and a trace of sorrow briefly flitting across his face. “Don’t you think that I trust you with my life?”

“I…" Greg started but stopped himself. If he concentrated, he still felt the places where the hard vest had had imprinted its rigid padding on his ribs and although there had been this brief flash of fear when the weapon was pointed at him, he had never really doubted that Mycroft had made sure he was safe. That there would be enough agents, enough electronic equipment, enough planning to make the whole operation a success. Hell, a week ago in that cellar, he would've walked down the corridor at Mycroft’s command even if there had been an army advancing towards him.

“You said that there’s nothing you wouldn’t do for me,” Greg said under his breath and this time, hearing it didn’t phase down his senses, as if he was ready to believe it if only he repeated it often enough.

Greg turned away again and looked at the commotion in front of the hospital but after a while, a hand slowly wandered down his back until it rested on his waist.

“And that’s how it’s going to be?” Greg asked with a sigh. “With the tapped phones, the half-truths, and the steel-clad doors?”

The hand tightened its grip, and out of the corner of his eye, Greg could see a tiny smirk playing around Mycroft's mouth.

“Yes, that’s how it’s going to be. But you know that there’s more.”

Greg smiled. Of course he knew that. No matter how chaotic the preceding days had been, he had always got glimpses at what else was possible, a future so unexpected and promising that he couldn’t wait for another peek.

A group of agents came out of the building and manoeuvred Darby into a car, speeding away while the throng of bystanders tried to keep up with the events, prompting the policemen who secured everything to some energetic shouting and waving.

“You know, together we could rule the bloody town,” Greg chuckled and already expected the puff of breath at his ear that announced the well-known voice. 

“I’m convinced we will,” it rumbled.

 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only CrackshotKate's calming influence brought me through a worse than normal end-of-story madness. And again, everything that reads like real English is hers :)


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